The Silent Duet
by Redderhead
Summary: Moriarty meets his maker as Sherlock discovers his abilities are greater without sound. Story about John & Sherlock hurting, helping & falling in love! General Fluffyness with a hint of adventure! JOHNXSHERLOCK Don't like, please don't read.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer; Unfortunately I do not own or claim the rights to the fantastic characters of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's creation, the BBC 'Sherlock' writers, or the men playing the parts. This is purely for entertainment purposes and should not be taken as literal stories._

_**Hello! Please enjoy my new story – and yes, it's a long one – may I introduce to you;**_

'_The Silent Duet'_

"Well, this is a turn up, Sherlock" The Irish _creature_ called under the artificial lights of the almost empty car park. The Yellow of the glow made his skin look translucent and snake-like as his oily deep drone reverberated around the large void.

"I cannot believe you're _hiding_ from me" the small man squealed in delight. The hollow dark laugh that followed seemed to echo around the walls more than was natural.

Sherlock crouched behind a brand new black BMW; he had worked out how far away Moriarty was from him. It wasn't far. He decided to try and text Lestrade again.

He held up his phone and sighed; still no signal of course, they_ were_ underground. With a scowl at his phone, he returned it silently to his black - tailored - jacket pocket.

Sherlock decided to make a run for the nearest car. It was a good 10 metres of open space, but he was quick on his feet when he needed to be. Moriarty, never 'getting his hands dirty' must be out of practice with a weapon, he would more than likely miss a moving target.

Sherlock took a couple of deep breaths and flung himself across the empty spaces; he heard the shots and almost felt them ricochet off the walls in front of him. He flopped down behind an old and battered white Nissan, peering through the gap underneath it to get a sense of where his enemy stood.

"This is ridiculous, Sherlock. I wish you could see this from my point of view. I can't believe that you call yourself my equal and we are playing 'peek-a-boo'." The voice was loud and sent shivers of…_fear_ down Sherlock's back, or was it anger? Sherlock never was too sure.

Trying to control his breathing, Sherlock thought through his escape routes at breakneck speed. He could break into one of these cars and drive over Moriarty to the exit. He shook his head a fraction to the right to dismiss the thought; he would never get into the car unnoticed, let alone hotwire it. He could shoot back and risk any damage he may cause; the same shake of his head dismissed this thought too, he was unarmed. '_Think!' _he ordered his brain. Then the answer came to him. He began ripping through his pockets, trying to find something he wasn't sure he had.

It was his only option, he thought. He would finish Moriarty, even if it killed him too. Sherlock paused to think about this as his right hand closed around the lighter in the bottom of his pocket. He shook his head dismissively once more, shaking away the doubt, and ripped the lighter from its location; he grabbed the handkerchief from his tuxedo chest pouch and scrambled to the rear end of the car. Silently, he popped open the petrol panel and unscrewed the cap underneath, he prayed there was enough fuel in this wreck of a car to have the desired effect he was counting on as he dangled the white material in to the tank. Leaving a small part of the handkerchief hanging out of the hole, he retrieved the lighter from where he had been holding it between his dry lips and watched the material absorb the solvent; glancing down at the lighter he held, he stopped.

He briefly examined the silver lighter held between his delicate right hands' index finger and thumb. It was a beautiful object, much like the man who had given it to him for his last birthday. Sherlock ran the pad of his thumb over the engraving across the back. Letting his eyes dance over the fine calligraphy and surrounding ivy pattern.

_For my Best Friend, Sherlock Holmes – JW_

"I hope you're not planning to run away, Sherlock. I do intend to kill you _today_." Moriarty called again, drawing out his sentences, slow and dangerous. By the dynamics of his voice, he had turned around full circle on the spot, dramatically, to view his surroundings. The cold sound hit Sherlock almost physically as he broke out of his reverie to face the high pressure task in front of him.

He didn't delay further; he flipped the cap of the lighter and brought it to the handkerchief.

"Jim?" Sherlock called expressionlessly from his crouched position over the petrol tank.

Jim whipped round to look at where the offending voice had come from with wicked speed, his face displaying confusion and anger. Sherlock enjoyed the expression he could see through the windows of the car.

Sherlock lit the material and stood tall above the car roof; "Boo!" he shouted and with a look of satisfaction over at Moriarty, he ran like he had never run in his life. His mind was sprinting too apparently, as for no reason he could fathom, he was constantly visualising John, Lestrade, John, Mrs Hudson, John, John, _John. _

The car park exploded. One boom, two booms, three, four as the other cars were roped into the same defeat as the little white Nissan. He was still running when a car beside him caught the licking flames of the last explosion, it crackled for a mili-second before finally erupting into the cataclysm that caught him, he felt the pressure from the explosion hit his back with force, lifting him from the ground, throwing him through the air and finally smashing him into the concrete alcove next to the emergency exit. The last thing Sherlock heard was the expensive clatter of concrete hitting glass to a background of high pitched static, before the darkness engulfed him.

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John sighed; he had finally gotten himself away from the large crowd of 'Sherlock fans' and made his way to the orderves. He had no idea why the - currently absent - taller man had agreed on behalf of the pair to come to this event. Looking around the large, well decorated and fancy room he popped a salmon oatcake in his mouth, promptly finding somewhere to spit it out. He grabbed his handkerchief from the top left pocket on his tuxedo jacket to wipe away the evidence and stopped instantly as a thought occurred.

Where_ was _Sherlock?

He had been missing for a good hour now, John had been scanning the many well dressed individuals present and Sherlock definitely was not in this function room.

John tucked his handkerchief up his sleeve out of sight as he wandered toward the door trying not to draw attention to himself. He knew no body, but he still did not want to appear as impolite as his friend would be in this situation.

Once on the other side of the large white door, John breathed a sigh of relief. He went to the toilets to find no Sherlock before he went to the cloak rooms to retrieve their coats. Whilst shrugging into his own, he noticed that Sherlock's phone was not in his coat pocket where it _lived _at this time of year,unless they were in the flat.

John walked outside, swishing Sherlock's coat around his own shoulders on top of his own dark coat. It was a cold night and John fumbled his cold hands into his coat pocket to reach his mobile phone; no missed calls and no messages. He tried to call Sherlock, but there was only a constant tone in reply, wherever he was, there was no signal.

John sniffed in the crisp night air, steam coming from his mouth in small puffs as he breathed, he put his phone back in his pocket and bounced down the steps to the pavement. He absentmindedly started walking towards the park, maybe Sherlock had nipped out for a bit of air…without his coat. John shivered, instantly pulling Sherlock's scarf around his neck and slipping his arms into the tailored coat. He must have looked ridiculous with the long coat on that left him 2 inches of ground clearance, but he didn't care, it was cold, and in his friends' absence, he was enjoying the comfort associated with the scent of the coat.

Without warning there was an extreme bang, the sky high - explosion spread colour and light over the park for only a moment before there was a second, third, fourth, fifth flare-up all within a beat of each other. John whipped around 180 degrees in time to see the funnelled explosion coming from behind the building he had just left. His jaw loosened and he stumbled slightly backwards to take in what he was seeing. Then he was running. An explosion like that could only leave one thing; injured and wounded human beings.

John ran as fast as he could, his friends' long coat billowing out behind him like a cape. John was overtaken by three fire engines, two police cars and an ambulance before he reached the fire ridden doorway of the multi-story car park. He ran over to the paramedics unloading equipment from the back doors of the Ambulance.

"Is there anything I can do? I'm a Doctor." John shouted over the wailing of the different emergency sirens. The female paramedic hastily glanced at John before shaking her head negatively.

"There's no need, only two casualties." She said in a gruff London accent.

"If you can call one of them a casualty. There are toasted pieces of him everywhere." One of the passing policemen said with a green tinge to his face. John looked up at him with an open mouthed vacant glance as the firemen assembled and led the ambulance crew into the dark smoking building.

John sat down on the cement wall outside the entrance in an attempt to get his breath back; he briefly looked up at the night's sky to help him calm his body down.

This, however, was deemed pointless as John suddenly felt winded at the sight unfolding before his eyes. Two coughing paramedics rushed out of the building, wheeling an emergency body bench between them. On the bed lay a motionless figure, a mass of blood blossoming from his face; staining the white sheets beneath and clumping in the dark head of curly hair above. John's own blood ran cold as an iron fist clenched his heart.

"Sherlock!" John shouted as he flung himself at the bed. He grabbed Sherlock's hand and gasped at its smoking heat, he then noticed the burns. Sherlock's tuxedo had been ruined, torn in many places and revealing second to first degree burns underneath. The side of his face from his high cheekbone to his eyebrow was red raw, peeling slightly, his eyes were closed and his skin had a red tinge to it. John stood dumbstruck, unable to move his eyes away from the man. He eventually was pulled from his gaze by the female paramedic he had spoken to before.

"Do you know this man?" She asked gently.

"Y-yes, he's my, he's my-…I'm sorry, is he going to be ok?" John couldn't get out his sentences in his state of shock, all that mattered was Sherlock. The woman helped load the bed into the ambulance and then she returned to speak to him.

"Come with us" She said simply, nodding her head back to the ambulance.

Without further thought, John was sitting beside the loaded bed, and Sherlock, with a paramedic flying around them in an organised and rehearsed haste. John sat deadly still, just holding his friends' hand and fighting back the urge to help or cry.

Upon entry to the hospital A John was held back from following the paramedics and he had to resort to watching the Sherlock-laden trolley disappear through the double doors. He looked down at the nurse blocking his way and saw that she was issuing him with a clipboard. He knew the drill well enough, but it was always different when it was happening to you and not just to someone else.

John perched on the edge of a waiting room seat and shakily filled in all of Sherlock's details on the form. He reached section clearly labelled; 'Next of Kin' and briefly paused, hovering the black biro over the empty box.

_It should really be Mycroft_, he thought.

However, John began writing his own details in regardless. He was the one that was here, he was the one out of the two, he supposed, that Sherlock could stand to see at this moment in time…if he woke up.

John glanced at the large silver waiting room clock. 03:30. He sat straight-backed in the plastic seat, his eyes wide and unblinking, staring uselessly back to the inanimate doors. He leaned forward, placing his head in his hands, his elbows on his thighs. The waiting room was empty and the magazines lay, unread on the seat beside him.

He stood up, about to go to the rather unappetising vending machine for a coffee, when a man approached. The dark haired man was slightly taller than John and his white coat was buttoned up; half concealing the green scrubs underneath.

"Dr Watson?" The man asked lightly.

"Yes" John replied, military style. He immediately stood at attention, awaiting the news he was going to receive.

"My name is Dr Livingstone, I have been working on Mr Holmes." The doctor explained gently, John nodded sharply and the doctor continued; "Mr Holmes is in a stable condition now; he has a few nasty burns, mainly on his back, and a couple of cracked ribs. Understandable really, it's amazing that he survived if the ambulance crew inform me correctly of the scale of accident." The doctor said quietly and calmly in a practiced manner. "We have done everything we can for now, we just need to wait for him to wake up and tell us what he needs." Dr Livingstone finished with an encouraging smile.

John sighed a little of the stress he had been carrying out through his mouth before looking back to the doctor questioningly.

"Will he be in here long?" He asked, burying his hands deep in his trouser pockets.

Doctor Livingstone did not answer his question, instead he looked shiftily around the waiting room and the reception desk, seeing the lack of people floating around he looked back at John with a gentle expression before he nodded his head to the doors behind him.

"Come on, come and see him." He said quietly.

Doctor Livingstone led John to a private ward; there were only two beds in the room, one empty by the door, the other with a motionless and well-bandaged figure lying in it, white sheets pulled up to his chest, tubes coming out of his arm and nose.

John thanked the doctor very much, took a deep breath and pushed open the door. He stood still as the door closed lightly behind him; he looked across at the unconscious body and heard the faint but continuous blips coming from the machine in the corner; Sherlock's heartbeat.

"What were you up to, you idiot" John whispered at the cataleptic form of Sherlock Holmes. Admiring the bandage work on Sherlock's face and arms, John sat in the wooden armchair provided at the bedside. He looked up at Sherlock's closed eyes between the bandages, seeing no movement at all. John sank down in his chair and continued the conversation as if everything was normal.

"You are so going to pay the excess on that hired Tux, Sherlock." John said quietly. "You can't fool me into paying it this time, it wasn't the mayonnaise!" John sighed when he received no witty bat – back reply. He sank further in his chair, resting his arms on the wicker, his right arm bent at the elbow in order for his hand to accommodate his head and he settled for a long wait.

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He looked so vulnerable. John shivered; 'vulnerable' and 'Sherlock' were two words that were unnatural in the same sentence, an impossible oxymoron.

He turned away from the window, he had been trying to watch the high speed ambulances screaming to a halt just outside, but he had mostly been staring at Sherlock's reflection in the glass.

John walked slowly over to Sherlock, standing over him, protective of him, like he had been for the last 24 hours. John let his hand extend and touch the soft dark curls covering the unconscious mans head. After a while, he gained confidence, and, avoiding the bandaged areas, he ran his hands through Sherlock's hair. He combed it from root to tip with his fingers; pushing it away from his angelic features, stroking the scalp with his nails gently in the process. He was appreciative of what lay beneath that thin protective layer and hoped it had been completely unharmed.

Suddenly, there was a small noise; a soft, unusual whine, almost like a whimper. John paused his hands' movements to look around him. There was no one else present and he did not _think_ he had made any noise. It must have been Sherlock. Johns' eyes flashed down to the body in front of him, examining his features for any sign of movement.

There. Sherlock's eyes were stirring behind closed lids. He was waking up. John continued his attentions to soothing Sherlock's hair as he watched, with a smile on his face, the man in question come back to life. His light grey eyes fluttered open, blinking in the overcast daylight and finally, focussing on John.

"Hello" John smiled. "I wondered when you were gonna wake up" John continued simply, continuing his pattern of soothing. "You missed one hell of a party back at Davenport house." He chuckled, expecting some kind of snappy retort.

No answer.

Sherlock just stared up at him; unblinkingly, staring at John's mouth with a concerned gaze.

"How do you feel? Do you need anything?" John asked gently, stopping his hand once more and moving it down to rest on Sherlock's bandaged own.

Still no answer. John started to feel uncomfortable under Sherlock's stare.

"I'll just get the nurse" John announced, dropping his hand in order to turn around and leave the room, however, the bandaged hand thrashed out and caught John's once more. Tightly grasping him. John turned to see Sherlock's slight wince at the movement he had just performed, before the pain was overtaken by a look of panic.

"It's ok Sherlock, I'm just leaving for a second to get the Nurse" John said encouragingly, pointing to the door.

Sherlock just stared, dumbfounded up at John's moving lips.

"John" Sherlock croaked.

John instantly grabbed the water from the nightstand in a reflex and helped Sherlock to take a sip or two. He took hold of Sherlock's hand once more and stooped over him, replacing the cup to the nightstand.

"I can't hear you" Sherlock whispered.

"It's ok Sherlock, I'm just here" John said in a gentle tone, not quite sure of what Sherlock had just said, but he was still heavily sedated - John had just supposed it was nonsense.

"John, I can't hear you" Sherlock said again, slightly louder this time, almost in panic. He waved vaguely at his ears with his other hand.

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	2. Chapter 2

_Reminder; I still don't own it!_

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John stood, frozen still as he looked into his best friend's eyes.

Of course he would be deaf; he had been in a massive underground multi-explosion.

His ear drums would have burst immediately.

"You are thinking about how you couldn't have thought about that before" Sherlock murmured as he examined John's face.

John smiled despite the situation. "Yes" John said, and then he paused. It was going to take a bit of getting used to, not to talk to this man.

Sherlock gave a weak smile and closed his eyes briefly.

John was suddenly overwhelmed with how happy he was to see Sherlock moving again, he hesitated for a moment wondering how he could communicate this to his deaf friend, but then, almost as if instinct took over, he had leaned forward and placed a delicate kiss to Sherlock's forehead.

Sherlock's eyes flew open at the touch to his face and he stared, wild eyed at his companion. John smiled wider as he looked at the expression he had caused on Sherlock's face, then he just pointed to the door, and tapped his watch, hoping that would convey;

'I'm going to get the nurse, back in a minute'

Sherlock nodded briefly, watching after his friend.

Sherlock shifted his gaze to the white washed ceiling after John's exit. He rather liked the silence he was listening to. No cars, no footsteps, no babies screaming, he lifted an eyebrow before thinking 'no adults screaming' and he smiled. He had finally gotten peace. But then an unexpected tug yanked on his heart, he wouldn't hear John's voice. The one good thing about hearing was John's gentle voice. That was what had perturbed him so when he awoke, John was talking and Sherlock was not hearing.

Sherlock changed the tack on his thinking, evaluating how useful this deafness could be for crime scenes, avoiding phone calls from his brother Mycroft, ignoring the idiotism's that the general public produce on a massive scale…but then, what good was it when he wanted to hear his best friends' voice?

Sherlock tilted his head to look toward the window and jumped noticeably when a hand landed without warning on his forearm. He was going to have to get used to this, showing signs of vulnerability was not Sherlock's forte.

"Oh, I'm sorry Sherlock, I didn't mean to make you –" John stopped himself short, he looked at Sherlock's face in defeat, well aware that his voice wasn't getting through to the man. He gave his best apologetic smile as the nurse walked up to the bedside. Sherlock nodded curtly to John to assure him it was ok.

John retreated to the chair beside the bed as the nurse carried out her checks. The nurse left the room and Dr Livingstone approached the bed as if on an invisible skateboard. John frowned at the analogy that had popped into his brain. He re-checked the doctors feet, and upon seeing no skateboard, or hovering, he presumed it must have been the 36 hours of not sleeping talking. He rubbed at his eyes, and started to pay attention to the Doctor.

"Now, I know you are a doctor yourself, and that your patient-" The Doctor paused to look at Sherlock with a smile "- is eager to get back home." He continued, his attentions now back on John.

John nodded and smiled briefly at Sherlock too before taking on instructions from the hospital doctor.

"You will need to address his burns twice a day, and make sure he does not make any rash movements." The Doctor stated firmly. "I expect the deafness to be temporary, but then, we never know with ear drums do we. It might heal, it might not, make sure he has a healthy diet and plenty of sleep. However, patience will be a big part if you are to look after him at home."

John nodded and swallowed hard, knowing that his facial expressions could be easily read by the man in the bed.

The Doctor handed John a few items of medication, dressings and antiseptics. The doctor then proceeded to uproot Sherlock from the bed slightly in order to show John the damage done to the expanse of skin across his back.

"Are you sure you can spare the time to look after him?" The Doctor whispered, seeing John's mixed look of sympathy and horror at the burns. "It will be a full time job".

John fixed the doctor with a resolute stare; "He is my full time job" he said, a weak smile breaking the surface of his ex-army stature.

The doctor looked as though he did not know what to do with this information, but he smiled regardless in reply.

"Alrighty then, I'll get one of the nurses to get him dressed and you can come with me to sign the paperwork." The doctor said whilst settling Sherlock back onto the bed.

John approached the bed and smiled fondly down at Sherlock.

He then repeated his actions of before, the nod, the tap of the watch and the doctor. Sherlock nodded once to confirm he understood.

On the way out of the ward, a nurse passed them enroute to helping Sherlock get dressed. John caught her by the arm gently.

"I've left fresh clothes on the other bed there, he likes his belt on the fourth notch, and his top two shirt buttons undone." John said sheepishly. The nurse looked to Sherlock and back to John with a slightly confused but motherly smile before nodding her understanding. John held Sherlock's gaze through the door's portholes as his feet walked him away.

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	3. Chapter 3

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221B was eerily quiet as John sat in his armchair, facing a cross-legged Sherlock on the opposite chair. The fire was warm and was casting an auburn glow across the dark room. Sherlock brought his hands up to his face and repeated the gesture.

"Scotland Yard" Sherlock said calmly.

John lifted an eyebrow, before he unclipped the lid from his dry wipe marker and started scribbling a sentence on the small white board on his lap. He held it up for Sherlock to read;

"I thought we had agreed that meant _'haircut'_" and John shrugged his shoulders as Sherlock looked at him in defeat.

John then wiped out his last message and replaced it with; "You know, we could just learn real sign language" Sherlock skimmed this message and then waved it away dismissively.

"Other people can then understand our conversations" Sherlock said in a frustrated tone.

John took to the white board once more and held it up for the other man to read; "You should rest, we've been at this for hours."

Sherlock huffed; crossing his arms and glaring at John. Sometimes he was so like a child. John walked out of the room and started to run the bath. When he returned, Sherlock hadn't moved.

The incident was now 3 weeks ago. Sherlock hadn't yet told John why it happened, how it happened or who the other person involved was. John supposed it was still too early to revisit the memory, and he had carried on regardless. Looking after Sherlock was easier than ever now, without the rants and the arguments, there were no bad things said and as yet; no crime investigating to wedge between them.

John went over to him and tapped his shoulder gently. Sherlock looked up at him to see he had made a gesture with two hands either side of his waist, hands flat and palms facing the floor.

"Another one?" Sherlock said incredulously.

John made an expression and held up one finger before waving it to the right, expressing that the previous bath was yesterday.

Sherlock sighed and gingerly got to his feet; his left leg still very tender, it would throb if he walked too far in one day.

John returned to the bathroom to tend to the water. Once it was a medium temperature, not too hot and not too cold, he flicked off the taps. Sherlock shifted into the bathroom, his head down and his face expressionless.

John stood and faced Sherlock, he smiled and with one finger under Sherlock's chin he raised his head to look at his face. Sherlock rolled his eyes before plastering a fake smile on his lips. He knew it was false and John knew it was false, but it was communication.

John silently went about undressing Sherlock, slowly unravelling the bandages that lay beneath his clothes and helping him to sit in the shallow water. John kneeled beside the bath squeezing the wet sponge above Sherlock's shoulders, Sherlock hissed, the cool water calmed his still, angry and scabbed skin but it was a shock as he didn't hear it coming.

Half way through the cleaning process John noticed Sherlock's far away expression. This seemed to happen a lot more now, that he was more able to be locked into his own head.

He stopped massaging shampoo into Sherlock's hair – which had become a guilty pleasure for them both – he moved down the bath slightly, putting his hand in the water, he playfully splashed bathwater at Sherlock's unburned and hairless chest.

Sherlock jumped out of his thoughts and looked questioningly up at John, who smiled mischievously. Sherlock's expression became one of disbelief that John was playing games in his bath time, before he gently flicked John's arm back with a measly volume of water.

John laughed lightly, before doing it back once more, this splash slightly bigger than the first.

Sherlock turned to John with a half smile as he put his wet hand on John's face, covering it in warm water and bubbles. John spluttered and laughed as he moved away from Sherlock's shrivelled hand. Sherlock let out a faint laugh at the foam left on John's chin and eyebrows.

"You look like a hairy hobbit" Sherlock said with a further chuckle.

"I am, compared to you" John said with exaggerated lip movements. Sherlock laughed once more before he began removing the bubbles from John's face with one hand. John let Sherlock clean his face with his eyes closed. He laughed at Sherlock's unexpected action of sticking his index finger in John's left nostril.

John breathed out harshly through his nose as he jerked away from Sherlock's hand with a full blown hearty laugh. Sherlock saw this and reciprocated with his own.

Once they had both calmed down, John moved to the bath side as before and returned his attentions to cleaning Sherlock's hair.

Sherlock's smile remained on his lips as he closed his eyes, enjoying the head massage he was receiving. He did think it a little odd the first time John had done this, not to mention when he woke up in the hospital and John was combing his hair with his fingers, but they had both been through a lot and he supposed that this is what friends are for, this is what they do.

Once his hair was rinsed, John indicated for Sherlock to stand up as he grabbed a large fluffy white towel off the rail

Sherlock looked at it dubiously; this was the bit he hated. John carefully approached Sherlock and started to gently pad him dry. The same ritual, everyday; the towel drying of the hair, the padding down of the chest, the 'turn around' and the intense pain of the material touching the burned flesh of his back. Sherlock ground his jaw shut, his eyes narrowed, focusing very hard on not yelping or running far away from John and his towel.

When Sherlock was still facing the bath, John dropped the bloodstained towel on the floor and replaced it quickly with another clean one, identical to the first. He wrapped it around Sherlock's waist and handed it to him to tuck in.

John then went next door to Sherlock's bedroom. He carried out his usual routine, picking up the discarded night clothes, closing the curtains, making the bed up and folding back the sheets. Sherlock stood in the doorway holding his towel around him. He watched John do this every day. Every day was devoted to Sherlock, was this normal behaviour?

John slowly turned round to look at Sherlock; who was staring at the bed in thought. John walked over to his _patient, _stopping less than a foot away from him; he placed his hands on both of Sherlock's shoulders, bringing him back to the current moment in time before nodding in the direction of the oak framed bed.

Sherlock knew the drill; he exchanged his towel for his comfortably warm and loose pyjama bottoms that John had bought him not 2 weeks ago, he felt the material comfort his refreshed skin as he sat down on the edge of his bed. John returned with the medi-kit he was not more than 10 feet away from these days and silently sat down beside his friend on the bed.

John carried his doctor duties silently and thoroughly. He cleaned the wounds thoroughly before placing the padding carefully and wrapping the gauze around Sherlock's chest and stomach, firmly holding it in place. He then checked the stitches in the back of Sherlock's neck, and cared for the burns on his face.

Sherlock's observant light eyes followed John's every move. He clocked every wrinkle of concentration on his face, every caring touch and every smile he gave when he realised Sherlock's eyes were on him. After the last bandage had been tied, John slapped his hands on the top of his own thighs to mark completion of the task.

Sherlock tried to lie down, but it hurt too much and he stopped. John jumped to his feet and held Sherlock all the way down to the pillows, ensuring his movements were slow and careful.

Sherlock smiled tiredly up at John in thanks before he pulled the sheets over his chest and up to his chin.

John made his final well rehearsed move of the day before leaving the room and closing the door behind him.

In the dark room, Sherlock lifted his right hand to his forehead and ran his fingertips over the small patch of skin where he had just received a kiss from his best friend.

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John woke the next day to a melody that filled the house. He blinked the sleep from his eyes and looked at the bedside alarm clock. 1345. He had had a good sleep, surprisingly.

He had lately been staying up, waiting for Sherlock to go to sleep; but he would fall asleep in the living room armchair. He would nearly always dream unpleasant scenarios before jumping awake, giving in to getting up and tidying around a little before Sherlock was awake once more and John was needed.

But this time, John had made it to his own room, had given in to his body's exhaustion. John padded down the stairs as he tied his dressing gown around himself, he stopped dead on the last step as he realised what the aforementioned sound was. It was Sherlock's violin. John felt his heart leap, Sherlock had his hearing back! However, the sudden leap was replaced with a sharp, unexpected fall as the feeling of sadness crept over him.

Sherlock wouldn't need him as much now, just like before.

John did his best to shake off his selfishness before he cracked open the living room door. Sure enough, there was Sherlock, sitting rather uncomfortably in the armchair, the wood of the violin against his ear as he struggled to move his right arm with the bow. His ribs were still giving him trouble then; they would do for another 6 weeks John surmised, he also took in the concentration on Sherlock's face as he tried to make sense of the vibration his violin was giving against his dead ear. There were a few twinges here and there of the wrong key or tone, the melody otherwise, was perfect. Both of these factors however, ensured that Sherlock was still stone deaf. John's heart silently flew, and he chastised himself all the way to the kettle. He was _not_ a selfish man, well; he wasn't before he met Sherlock.

Sherlock suddenly stopped playing to observe his flatmate lost in thought at the kitchen counter. Sherlock did find it amusing when John would now and then talk aloud to only himself; when he was angry or frustrated mostly. Sometimes, Sherlock could tell what the subject was about just looking at John's expression, other times he could read his lips, almost hear his voice in his own head. This time though, Sherlock had no idea what the subject was…was it the violin? John had never complained about Sherlock's hobby during the day before, at night though, well that was a different story. Sherlock still took the precaution of putting away his wooden instrument and tucking the case out of sight.

John turned to him with a look of surprise. Sherlock deduced this correctly as _'Why did you stop?'_

"You are angry with me" Sherlock stated in his low and flat tone.

John looked even more surprised and then he frowned; _'No I'm not'._

"You only talk aloud these days when you are angry or frustrated" Sherlock replied to the silence.

John smiled at his friend, leant on the kitchen bunker and shook his head at the floor. _'You couldn't be more wrong'._

"What has got you talking aloud to yourself today then?" Sherlock said, sitting cross legged in his chair, his empty hands clasped together with his long fingers steepled at his mouth. John recognised this stance as 'Give me data'.

John just waved his hand and then pointed to himself, indicating; _'Nothing, just me'._

Sherlock frowned; "You're angry with yourself?" he asked.

John poured the boiling water into two mugs, creating a coffee for Sherlock, and a tea for himself. He looked up at the questioning man as he moved to the fridge and just nodded affirmatively.

Sherlock furrowed his already frowned brow. "But why? Ahh." Sherlock's revelation hit him hard in the face as he asked the question. "You thought my hearing had returned" Sherlock accused with narrowed eyes; he glanced at the closed violin case in thought. John spilt the milk slightly in shock at Sherlock's deduction.

"I am correct then." Sherlock stated before rolling systematically further with his findings, his voices' volume increasing progressively. "So, you thought that my hearing had returned, you were tentative entering the room as you thought I might hear you, then there's the anger, why, why, why, ah…you thought I would not need your help as much…you are angry with yourself for being selfish". Sherlock finished with a flourish, staring up at John with wide bright eyes and a straight face.

John stood, holding the two mugs in his hands. Sherlock was reminded of the John Watson standing at the crime scene, the very start of their friendship, after he tried to lie to him about not shooting the cab driver. Sherlock smiled triumphantly.

"See, you still can't lie to me" He said coolly before he hesitated, his smile falling from his mouth, he watched as John approached with the hot beverages "I still would though…need you if my hearing returned. I would be lost without my blogger."

John smiled a true smile in response, placing the mug of sweet coffee on the small table, the handle turned toward him for easy reach. He put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder to communicate his appreciation of the words before making himself comfortable in his own armchair and flicking on the T.V. The news was on, as was second nature now; John pressed the two buttons most used on the remote; subtitles and mute. He smiled briefly at Sherlock, who returned the smile thoughtfully.

They watched the news in silence, occasionally, John would shake his head and tut at the stories, Sherlock would watch alternately between the screen and John's expression filled face. He could read him like a book just by his facial expressions and body language; it made John an easy deduction target in any situation.

After the news, John turned to Sherlock with a concerned expression; _'How are you feeling?'_

"I'm fine, John, really, I'm fine." Sherlock said assuringly.

John smiled and made a move to get up. He looked at Sherlock's confused expression and just tugged at his dressing gown in response, meaning_ 'I'm going to get dressed'_. Sherlock nodded and returned his gaze to the television.

John came back down the stairs 15 minutes later to see Sherlock unmoved. He smiled as he walked to him, tapping the top of the arm that was holding the empty coffee mug. Sherlock looked up at John and understood it was time to change the bandages.

The whole routine started again, every day was the same with small differences; such as John might call on Mrs Hudson, ask if she could pop to the local Chinese take away for some food for them and herself, or he would call Lestrade; asking him to bring over some DVDs; so that they could all have a film evening, sometimes, on rare occasions, Mrs Hudson and Mycroft would appear in time for the film. Sherlock liked those days; they meant that John had no desire to leave his side and would sit next to him on the couch, often with some small gesture like nudging arms, or resting a hand briefly on his leg.

Other times, John would insist that Sherlock write a blog or a short story; claiming his creativity was going to waste. Occasionally they would play silly games like 'deduce what I am thinking now' or 'guess-the-news-stories-before-the-TV-goes-on', but Sherlock only joined in with these to keep John smiling. He liked John's smile, it spoke volumes to the hearing-impaired man.

The days weren't long, and Sherlock had John to thank for that.

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Slowly the pain started to ease and after 2 months; Sherlock was able to walk the stairs alone to see John's bedroom, or venture into Mrs Hudson's flat for a biscuit. He was able to lie down without help and struggle his own way out of his bed sheets in the morning. He gradually started taking chores from John & Mrs Hudson, like keeping his bedroom floor clear and making the morning beverages.

John watched his friend's progress like a hawk. Always ready for possible events that could stunt Sherlock's improvements; the kettle over-spilling when boiling, Sherlock falling or thrashing nightmares. John had grown a little greyer atop his head, and his nightmares had grown worse, not about war, but about Sherlock being hurt; the bloody face staring up at him from the emergency body bench every night when he closed his eyes.

Once he had jumped awake and regained his senses, he would trot down the corridor from his bed on the old armchair in the living room, cautiously enter Sherlock's bedroom, look over his friend and ensure his safety. After a while he would make himself comfortable in the armchair at the foot of Sherlock's bed, pulling the blanket over himself and falling asleep until morning.

Sherlock was used to waking up and seeing his flatmate curled up in the old fashioned armchair, the green tartan blanket only just covering his feet and shoulders, but he had not questioned him about it. Sherlock could see the toll that looking after him was causing John in every move and glance he displayed; he felt a pang of guilt when he noticed it. He could tell John was haunted by that night, and as much as it was going to hurt the both of them, he would have to tell him what happened at some point, and some point soon.

One night, Sherlock caught John in his night time routine. He had jumped awake from a frequently experienced nightmare, planning his escape route from the underground car park, Moriarty's face, the explosion. He let his eyes adjust to the dark before shaking his head slightly to rid his mind of the images it had produced.

Sherlock lay on his uninjured side, facing the open door as per usual, however this time he focussed his eyes in puzzlement on John's shadow appearing in the corner of his room.

Sherlock watched as John wiped at his own face with the palm of his hand, let out a sigh and headed for the armchair and blanket. As John struggled into his usual position on the leather, Sherlock spoke quietly as to not alarm the midnight wonderer.

"Come here John, that armchair really is not that comfortable" Sherlock patted the mattress beside him, not moving from his current position. John sat a moment, blinking in the dark, looking over at Sherlock. He knew his words and excuses would be pointless, so without too much delay, he stood from the chair and walked to the bedside.

Sherlock lay still and moved his arm to the corner of the duvet, pulling it back invitingly.

John climbed into the pre-warmed bed beside his flatmate and lay down against the pillows next to Sherlock's head.

They lay in silence for a while before Sherlock spoke.

"You're not sleeping well" he stated, closely examining John's profile.

John rolled over to face Sherlock and lie parallel with his body, he nodded.

"Nightmares?" Sherlock asked. John nodded again. "About me?" Sherlock asked in a whisper. John looked into Sherlock's light blue eyes, communicating his answer without movement. "I'm sorry, John" Sherlock said, still whispering. John smiled weakly and lifted his right hand to Sherlock's face, using his thumb to wipe away the wrinkles of concern around the younger mans' forehead and eyes.

Sherlock stared into the dark blue eyes not 5 inches from his own; "I think, its time to tell you about what happened that night" Sherlock said. His tone was flat and his volume was off, not quite suited to their close proximity; John waved his thumb and index finger to signal this to Sherlock, Sherlock smiled an apology before returning to his whisper.

"Moriarty was in the car park with me." Sherlock swallowed back his hesitation. "He had seen me at the party, he said he had _friends_ there; assassins, and unless I followed him…well…you can guess." Sherlock said off handily, glancing up at the ceiling before continuing.

"Once we were outside, I ran to the car park, hiding inside, I knew he would not have a mobile phone signal in the surrounding concrete – meaning he couldn't have contacted his _friends_ at the party. Of course he followed me. I hid behind cars, me! _Hiding_!" Sherlock hissed the last part, almost as if he was ashamed of himself. John moved his hand to Sherlock's hair combing through the dark curls, listening intently and signalling to Sherlock to carry on.

"Well, I ran behind an older car, I thought, and thought, and thought, I could not come up with a plan. I had to do what I did. I lit the petrol tank…I ran as fast as I could and the only…the only thing…I could think about…was you." Sherlock finished, looking at John's chin, averting his eyes from John's gaze.

John's hand had stopped dead in Sherlock's hair. Sherlock saw that John's mouth was moving and he intently watched it, making a sentence out of it.

'_You did this to yourself?'_ Sherlock read, he looked up at John's expression, the man was angry.

"I had to John, there was no other way" Sherlock said in a sudden panic.

'_You could have kept running!'_ Sherlock felt the vibration of John's voice through the mattress; meaning it was loud, infuriated.

"John, I had to get rid of him, I couldn't have just run away, he would have come back and hurt _you_" Sherlock stopped as John fixed him with a surprised look.

'_Just me?'_ John said pointing to himself.

Sherlock nodded guiltily, folding his chin to his chest, suddenly finding John's flannel pyjamas fascinating to look at.

John lay for a moment in shock, just looking down at the forlorn Sherlock. He sighed; there really was nothing Sherlock could do to keep them both safe. His actions were justified, but he couldn't shake the thought that had appeared in the deepest darkest corner of his mind; he would rather it had been _him_ that was hurt instead of Sherlock, but his heart flew as he remembered that Sherlock's potentially last thought was about him. John moved forward slightly and raised his hand once more to the taller man's hair that was now tickling his chin and neck; he planted a kiss atop Sherlock's head and ran his fingers through the curls, gently soothing Sherlock without words.

Sherlock smiled into John's pyjama shirt, he closed his eyes and allowed himself to be lulled to sleep by the fingernails brushing his scalp and neck. He was not used to physical contact, but he had rather enjoyed the last few weeks of John being very much within his personal space, when he did not really need to help, Sherlock is more than capable of looking after himself now, but for reasons unknown and unquestioned; John continued to wash him, bandage him, feed him and even cuddle him.

John and Sherlock did not have any more nightmares after Sherlock had shared the story. John didn't need to visit Sherlock's room during the night. Things were now improving for both of them as they were able to move on from what happened that awful night and look to getting back to normality.


	4. Chapter 4

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Before long, Lestrade was visiting once a week, bringing with him photographs and evidence from his crime scenes, running them past Sherlock with John as translator.

John revelled in this, he loved to feel useful and for the time being, he was crucial.

"This is no good, I will need to see the crime scene first hand" Sherlock whispered one day, looking at the photographs with his magnifying glass. Lestrade was standing in the window and turned back to the consulting detective at his quiet words. John looked at Sherlock seriously, Sherlock pinpointed the unanswered question as; _'Are you sure that is wise?'_

"It will be fine, John, we need to get out of this house. You are more than able to help me with communication"

John, now looking into his cup as he drained the liquid, glanced at Sherlock with raised eyebrows as he swallowed his tea, a simplified; _'But your walking could be improved'._

"John, I am perfectly able, will it help if I take your crutch?" Sherlock questioned quietly, looking for John's reaction.

John smiled; _'Yes'_.

Lestrade watched the conversation in awe. Most of the time, John did not need to signal or annunciate; Sherlock grasped every question, statement and thought that crossed John's mind, whether John wished it or not.

Sherlock and John nodded at each other in confirmation before both looking up at Lestrade with identical smiles. Lestrade couldn't help it, he laughed.

The two men, still smiling, stood up to ready themselves for the outside world, leaving Lestrade to his phone calls; attempting to keep his crime scene untouched until they got there.

John helped Sherlock into his old purple shirt, black trousers and matching suit jacket. Walking into the hallway, John retrieved the outer clothing that had been abandoned these last few months; he stroked his hand over the grey material fondly before returning to Sherlock's bedroom to don the genius with the coat, and purple scarf, which he carefully threaded around the taller mans neck. Sherlock smiled down at his friend who moved delicately around him whilst he pulled his black leather gloves over his hands, protecting his scars from the public eye. With a step back to look at Sherlock, John nodded proudly and handed Sherlock the, extended, aluminium crutch. Without further delay, Sherlock briskly walked back into the living room to face Lestrade, John in tow.

Walking onto the crime scene was not a comfortable experience. John tried not to hear the whispers around him, or notice Donavon's shocked expression, he focussed on his training, the details that Sherlock had taught him about communicating in the field.

Sherlock walked as normally as he could, battering the cane off the ground like his brother would an umbrella. His eyes narrowed as he saw the lifeless body, face down on the cold, wet tarmac of the alleyway. For a moment, he revelled in the thought of completely ignoring everyone in the vicinity now; not even Lestrade's thinking would break the silence. His deduction skills had been greatly enhanced by the loss of sound; he could lock himself in without any unnecessary data entering his brain. He rather liked it.

John stood beside Lestrade and watched Sherlock move around the crime scene. John noticed how light Sherlock's eyes seemed to be in colour when viewing a mystery, identifying the clues that were so obvious to him and invisible to normal people. He watched as_ that_ coat followed his every move, swishing around him, dancing with him.

John returned his gaze to Sherlock's face just as Sherlock signalled with his first and third finger; a signal that only John could understand. Obediently, John stood forward, crouching over the sorry sight to give his medical opinion.

After a silent decision; John stood up, facing away from everyone else, he quickly signed his way through his findings. Sherlock nodded after a while and held his right hand out flat, palm down to signal his understanding.

John walked back over to Lestrade, briefly looking around the area as he pulled his coat cuffs further down, over his hands.

"You two are remarkable" Greg said in his Londoners twang as he watched Sherlock.

"How come?" John asked with a confused expression as he followed Lestrade's gaze and watched Sherlock too.

"You understand each other without words. I mean, _that_ is some connection. I can't even get my wife to understand that I don't like mushrooms." Greg moved his shoulders to emphasise his last sentence, his hands buried deep in his trouser pockets as he still refused to look at John.

John laughed lightly. "Well, it helps when you can't argue and shout at each other, I dunno, everything just seems calmer without sound" he said still watching Sherlock and his magnifying glass.

"Do you think his hearing will come back?" Lestrade whispered.

"I'm really not sure." John answered truthfully.

"To be honest, I have always preferred the silent duet to the full blown symphony." Lestrade said with a light laugh – although John could tell he had meant every word of his metaphor, the duet being the current Sherlock and John, the symphony being Sherlock's old loud, obnoxious self.

Sherlock then approached them and the two men stayed quiet to receive the verbal overload that they knew was coming.

In his usual whispering tone, Sherlock divulged that; "The deceased was a drug addict, died from strangulation, the murderer was a 5 ft 1" Chinese male drug dealer, most probably motive was money."

Lestrade looked between the two men that stood in front of him.

"How am I going to find a 5 ft 1" Chinaman?" he asked incredulously.

Sherlock looked to John with a frown; John brought his right hand up to his eyebrows, flat, palm down as he looked into the distance as if looking for something in a bright sun.

"Oh, he's the owner of the Bowling Alley on the corner." Sherlock whispered.

Lestrade gawped; "Evidence?" He asked.

John pointed to the crime scene and made a circle with his index fingers and thumbs together.

Sherlock reached into his pocket, and took out a tiny section of material, passing it to Lestrade as he spoke quietly "Chinese silk. Coupled with the size 4 footprints from officer shoes that are in this alleyway, officer shoes are made in China, sold in sets of 500 pairs." Sherlock straightened his collar against his neck as he continued his low rumble of a speech; "Money was involved then, small patch of white powder on the nose of the victim, clear sign, this man was desperate for his addiction. So desperate, in fact, that he managed to get attacked by a small athletic man, how do we know the size of this man? Easy, size 4 feet and suggested hand size by the bruises to the dead mans neck equals 5 ft 1"." Sherlock waved his hands in conjunction with his speech.

"Then, there's this" Sherlock fetched another item from his pocket and pinched it between his first and second fingers for Lestrade to take;

_Kum Wah Palace Superbowl_

_Tenpin bowling, available for parties and corporate events._

_Food & bar._

Written across the back of the business card in a neat biro pattern was; _"Meet round back, bring 5,000"_

Lestrade looked down at it in dismay. "Where was that? I've had my team combing this alley for hours" He said aghast at the discovery.

John signalled the question to Sherlock and Sherlock signalled back, turning on his heel and walking away, a slight limp evident now as he was getting tired.

"Sherlock says; 'you should really get your team re-trained, and the business card was in the wallet'." John smirked as he said this, watching Lestrade's open mouthed shock with a suppressed chuckle before he ran to catch up with his friend.

Within two minutes, John heard Lestrade's shout; "_Anderson!_" and he laughed. Sherlock glanced at John and a smile cracked his lips as he deduced what had just happened.

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John poured two small tumblers half full with whisky. He walked across the warm, familiar room, placing his own on the table and holding the other out to Sherlock. Sherlock accepted it graciously and instantly cupped it in both hands. John kneeled in front of the fire to stoke up the wood, slowly dwindling in the grate. Once done; he stood to approach his usual armchair.

"Sit beside me" Sherlock whispered, it was almost poised as a question, but it had reached the warm air as a statement. John turned toward him seeing the man staring into the fire, without hesitation, John grabbed his glass from the small table and made for the brown couch where Sherlock was sitting. He sat down with a groan and nursed his night time drink in his right hand.

Sherlock was still staring thoughtfully at the fire before his gaze travelled to the rug. He blinked rapidly and sucked his bottom lip into his mouth. John recognised this as Sherlock experiencing emotion, which did not happen frequently. John lay a hand on Sherlock's arm to question if he was ok. Sherlock nodded and continued his thoughtful stare.

The pair sat in silence. Eventually John drained the last of his whisky and turned to Sherlock to see he had barely touched his own. John made a move to get up when Sherlock grabbed his arm.

"You do realise how much I appreciate you, don't you John?" Sherlock whispered, looking into his face in desperation.

John looked shocked for a minute before he nodded at Sherlock, adding a smile for reassurance.

Sherlock let a tear loose from his right eye and he felt it slide down his cheek, he made no move to hide it or to rub it away, he just stared at his friend.

John's heart ached, his face reflecting the feeling as he looked back at the emotional mess sitting beside him. Sherlock had been through a hell of a lot, and he was probably only just realising what had happened to him, how much he had needed to depend on John.

John made a _'shh' _noise as he raised his hand to wipe away Sherlock's tear; he knew full well that Sherlock wouldn't hear him, but he had done it more for his own benefit than for Sherlock's.

Sherlock looked down at John's mouth, his eyes wide and watery.

"I wish I could hear your voice" He whispered, bringing his own hand up to John's lips, running his fingers over them.

John watched, in confusion, as his _sociopathic _friend sought _comfort _in him, and even more than was already given in their new way of life.

"Come on, lets get you washed" John said against the fingers as he dropped his hand from Sherlock's face and half signalled _'bath'_.

Sherlock nodded, seemingly slipping out of his trance, he downed his drink and got clumsily to his feet, leaning on John for a moment until he had gained his balance. The walk to the bathroom and the bath itself was quiet. Towel drying was a lot easier now than it had been, Sherlock's skin was healing well, and quickly, probably due to his healthier diet and resting, John thought.

John suddenly stopped his attentions to drying Sherlock's hair as a thought slammed into the front of his mind.

'_Sherlock is more than capable of washing himself by now'_

Sherlock looked through his wet hair and up at John from where he sat on the edge of the bath; a towel round his waist. John was frozen into position with another towel between them in outstretched arms.

"Are you ok?" Sherlock asked, unable to deduce what had sent John into his stupor.

John blinked. "I shouldn't be doing this" He mumbled, still unmoving.

Sherlock looked up at John's mouth in concentration; "I've been able to bathe myself for a while now John" he whispered.

John stared at him; "Why did you let me keep doing it?" John asked questioningly, pointing to help get his point across.

"I thought you were enjoying looking after me" Sherlock said in a small voice, still looking up at John with wide, helpless eyes.

John stared at Sherlock for a long while before he held out the towel for Sherlock to take, Sherlock didn't take it.

"I am enjoying you looking after me" Sherlock continued, a small smile playing on his lips. John felt a blush creep up his neck and he felt a shy smile spread his face, he averted his eyes looking at his bare feet on the tiled floor.

Without any more silent or verbal communication, John returned his attentions to the wet hair in front of him, his smile spreading as he realised he _did_ enjoy looking after Sherlock. He enjoyed being useful. However, as John moved to the back of Sherlock's hair, leaning Sherlock's forehead against his stomach in order to towel rub the still dripping mop of curls, a frown crossed his brow.

He couldn't just _continue_ to do everything for Sherlock, the man was better; he should be independent, having showers even. His skin was healed, there was only faint reminders left in the form of scars. Sure, his leg gave him daily trouble, but it wasn't enough to warrant a full-time bedside nurse.

John realised that Sherlock's hair was almost bone dry now; he had gotten a bit carried away with drying it and threw the towel on the floor in an _'all done'_ statement.

John frowned further when Sherlock didn't move, still resting against John's stomach. John cupped the back of Sherlock's neck with one warm hand; he ran his fingertips over the skin there and felt Sherlock shiver at the touch. He chuckled lightly and moved his hands to Sherlock's shoulders, pushing him back slightly to see his face. To John's bewilderment, Sherlock was crying again.

John quickly crouched down, every corner of his face reading concern.

"I'm so confused" Sherlock said weakly, his eyes slightly red and watery.

"Confused about what?" John asked slowly, so that Sherlock could lip read.

"I've never had anyone to look after me before. I was brought up, differently to everyone else. I never had physical contact after the age of 4. And, and, and I…don't trust people, I have made that my number 1 rule. But, I just can't stop." Sherlock stammered his way through his speech, his face expressing obvious panic. He clasped his hand to his chest, over his heart and continued; "Something is telling me to give….e-everything to you" Sherlock stopped to inhale an uncontrolled gasp of air as he fought against his sanity to finish this account of his feelings; "But, you'll go away…e-eventually…companions a-always do, but not if I do what my _feelings _tell me to do, t-then you would go a-away sooner."

John sat back on his heels staring at the man who had once had Scotland Yard in the palm of his hand, now reduced to a gibbering, deaf wreck. He put his hands on Sherlock's bare knees and made eye contact with the beautiful chiselled face. Sherlock stopped gasping and looked, calmly at John, swallowing hard.

"I'm sorry John; I'm not sure what just happened" Sherlock whispered, back to his cool demeanour.

John signalled to Sherlock, somehow it was easier than words; _'I think you are getting over shock'_

"John that was almost 4 months ago, why would I still be upset?" Sherlock said in frustration.

John angled his face away from Sherlock's but kept his eyes on him.

"Not good?" Sherlock asked.

John signalled _'A bit'_

Sherlock smiled. "I'm sorry for breaking down, John; I guess you can see I'm not a hero after all now."

John smiled weakly, he hesitated before signing in their own way; _'Sherlock, you will always be my hero' _and he smiled up at him, so genuinely that Sherlock felt like letting a whimper escape his lips, but he controlled himself and only allowed a curt nod in reply.

John stood and waved to the door, the taller man followed.

They went into Sherlock's bedroom and John was about to carry out the routine, however, were no burns to dress and no mess to tidy, meaning John just stood in the middle of the room looking a little lost. Sherlock chuckled; he then approached the bed and swapped his towel for his pyjamas before walking back to John and grabbing his hand, pulling him towards the bed. Sherlock clambered into the sheets and signalled John to do the same. John quickly rid himself of his brown cardigan and shirt, his jeans and his socks and climbed on top of the mattress, sinking down into the pillows beside the younger man.

The pair silently lay side by side, facing each other until John finally let out an awkward cough, he watched his own hands as he signalled something to Sherlock.

Sherlock lifted his head slightly to look down at John in puzzlement; "Say again?" he asked.

John blushed a little, before he signed the sentence again. Sherlock looked a little taken aback; "What I am feeling is _love_?" Sherlock repeated in distain.

John nodded before signing; _'It's what normal people feel'_

Sherlock let his head fall back to the pillows in disgust. "What, I suppose you feel it too?" he asked bitterly.

John nodded, not looking at Sherlock who was sitting up again to look down at John.

"For _whom_?" Sherlock demanded, he was so close to John, leaning over him to see his expression through the darkness.

John looked up into Sherlock's face now; he saw the whiteness of his eyes, those brilliant, wonderful eyes, holding his gaze. A thought came to John and he didn't really process it before he was slowly lifting his head from his own pillow and meeting Sherlock's lips with his.

Sherlock froze. His eyes wide, looking, almost cross eyed at the man that was attached to his face. John realised the action was not being reciprocated and he immediately broke apart, letting his head fall back on the pillow with a soft thud.

He signalled _'Sorry' _but did not get a reply. He watched cautiously as Sherlock remained in the same position, looking down at John with a look of intense confusion. After a minute or two John shifted uncomfortably and Sherlock seemed to snap out of his thoughts. Without a word he returned to the empty side of the double bed and lay on his back.

John went to roll onto his side, away from Sherlock, when Sherlock rolled back into his previous position, clamping John still. Sherlock's expression one of hesitance, nervousness and shyness. John just watched, helplessly, as Sherlock lowered himself onto John and tentatively pressed his lips to John's once more. They remained still, their lips only just touching for a few moments before Sherlock pulled away to see what reaction John had, however, John had no reaction at all. His breathing was steady and his eyes were closed. He was asleep.

Sherlock laughed lightly and smiled down at his friend, he was right; Sherlock felt more for this man than he had ever felt for anyone in his life, love was a powerful emotion indeed. Sherlock ran his hand over John's sleeping forehead before lying down, tucking his head into the crook of John's neck and wrapping his arm firmly around his soldier.


	5. Chapter 5

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John awoke to the feeling of being squashed. Once aware that he was lying on his front in the shape of a star fish, he was suddenly conscious of the fact that whatever was lying on his back was breathing. John moved his head from out of the pillows to see that there was a fluff of dark hair in his peripheral vision, resting on his shoulder. He blinked.

Slowly, the night before's events swam into his mind and he suddenly froze, of all the times for a whisky to have kicked in, it was _not_ when Sherlock Holmes was showing his first affections. John moaned slightly at the thought of it.

"You really can't hold your liquor, John" The deep voice mumbled into John's shoulder.

"Neither can you, ya big lump" John moaned into the sheets.

"Of course I can, I have never been drunk" Sherlock answered promptly.

John stiffened his back in shock. He felt Sherlock roll off of him and he sat up sharply to grab Sherlock's shoulders.

"You can hear me" John said quietly.

"Yes" Sherlock said, smiling fondly up at John's bed head hairstyle and sleepy left eye.

"Sherlock, you can, oh, you're back!" John said, ecstatically, smiling and pulling Sherlock to him in a hug. "Oh, we have to tell everyone!" John was halfway off the mattress when Sherlock wrapped his arms around his middle, pulling him back to the bed with a;

"Whoa, there" Sherlock didn't remove his arms once the Doctors back had met his bare chest, but continued to talk in a whisper; "Could we just, not?"

John turned his head to see Sherlock's face, a look of confusion written upon it.

"John, could we keep it quiet that my hearing has returned, no pun intended. But, I enjoyed the freedom of being deaf; I can ignore everyone, and only talk to you. I also like our own language that we have created, it seems a waste to not use it" Sherlock's voice was pleading; "Plus, my hearing is not _completely_ back, I can only hear muffled noises in my left ear."

John smiled; he nodded in agreement and lay back down on the bed, bringing Sherlock with him, John attentions were then drawn to the arms wrapped protectively around his waist. "What are we gonna do, Sherlock?" John questioned.

"About what?" Sherlock asked, his voice muffled in John's hair.

"About this, us?" John said bringing his hand to Sherlock's arm and stroking it with his fingertips.

"We only slept, John, I thought we had decided on our thoughts last night." Sherlock said, slightly confused.

"So, you weren't drunk?" John questioned innocently.

"Neither were you" Sherlock stated dully.

John turned over in Sherlock's arms, allowing himself to revel in the feel of Sherlock's skin against his.

John's dark blue eyes met the light grey ones of the taller man and John smiled contentedly.

"So, we're….well, we're boyfriends then?" John asked shyly.

Sherlock smiled "We have been for a long time, John"

"How'd you figure that?" John questioned incredulously.

"We've been sleeping in the same room, communicating in our _'own special way', _eating together, not to mention the guilty pleasure you feel from washing my hair…do you need me to continue?" Sherlock said quickly.

John brought his hands up to his face and covered it in realisation. "No, please don't" he said into his palms.

Sherlock looked at him with an odd expression.

"Anyway, that doesn't matter, what matters now, is how do we proceed?" Sherlock said as if talking about an experiment on their kitchen table.

"Proceed?" John asked genuinely confused.

Sherlock released his hold on John's waist to bring his hands up between them; he started signing in their own language;

_How do I express love?_

John's jaw loosened his expression of surprise clear.

"You've never…?" John left his question unanswered, hanging in the 10 inches between them.

Sherlock shook his head.

"Ahh, well, that's…unexpected." John said, looking down at Sherlock's chest.

Sherlock's face fell as he examined John's reaction.

"Problem?" Sherlock asked, his brow furrowing.

John chuckled before looking up at Sherlock with a half smile that sent a small shiver down the detective's neck.

"No, no problem at all." John said with a full smile and a lick of his lips as he looked hungrily down at Sherlock's chest once more.

John gently moved up the bed to press his lips to Sherlock's, Sherlock received John's kiss happily. It was wet, clumsy and far from perfect, but John was becoming addicted to the taste of his flatmate and was exploring the genius' mouth eagerly. The usual 'Sherlock Scent' otherwise known as sandalwood was strong and the taste of sleep was evident. It was overpowering, Sherlock bit back an embarrassing noise that threatened to escape his throat, but John sensed it and pulled away from the light pink lips to whisper against them;

"Let yourself go"

Sherlock shuddered once more, his hands crawling round John's waist to creep up his back as he claimed the shorter man's lips once more, pulling him to his chest with growing excitement.

John moaned and started to roll the couple, Sherlock's back meeting the mattress as John climbed atop the Detective, not breaking their kiss, he straddled the dark haired man. John broke the kiss then to check in with Sherlock that everything was ok, he looked down at the lean figure beneath him and felt his pulse quicken still; the sight was beautiful, Sherlock's eyes were black, his face and neck flushed, those lips so red and plumped from kissing, his breath sharp and uneven, he looked up at John in a mild form of panic, reaching out to him to clutch him close. John understood the gesture as he felt the same, they were too far apart.

John, encouraged by this sight, returned his attentions to kissing his best friend, which was quickly becoming his new favourite activity. He let his hands wander down Sherlock's sides and chest between them, feeling every part of this beautiful creature below him.

Sherlock couldn't hold it in any more and as soon as John's left hand found his most intimate area, he let out a low growl, putting all of his feelings into the one sound that emitted through his mouth and consequently into John's.

John smiled against his lips and returned the growl, showing his understanding of Sherlock's emotions.

Sherlock's hands wandered up from John's hips to settle either side of his head to keep his mouth close, he had lifted his own head from the pillow to kiss John with such eagerness and hunger; something that was so foreign to him and was now becoming as familiar as a first language. He identified the patterns of the passionate kiss, focussed on this, improving in skill by the minute, he started to catalogue the amazing feelings that John was causing with just his hands, the hands of a doctor, thehands he had so often watched as they examined evidence, bodies, saw them idly tapping the kitchen bunker, and looked on as they had fixed his wounds.

The mere thought of his hands had Sherlock arching his back in pleasure, but then, then there was fear.

John noticed the sudden stillness of the man beneath him, and he broke the kiss once more to look down at Sherlock in concern, he raised his left hand and ran it through the dark curls on top of Sherlock's head. Sherlock looked up at John with wide eyes.

"What's wrong?" John asked, his voice low and husky, it sent a thrill through Sherlock.

"I've never, Oh god, John, I've never felt like this, there's this _feeling_ in my lower half, what's wrong with me? I feel sick, but impatient and it's _aching_" Sherlock expressed his uncomfort, along with a facial expression to match.

John smiled down at the stressed man under him, and he let his hands resume their trail down his body whilst whispering seductively;

"I think I can prescribe something for that, Sherlock, relax, remember, and let yourself go."

Sherlock listened to the calming voice of his friend, partner, colleague and lover, he felt something building, a crescendo to their not so silent duet, he lifted his head once more and viciously claimed John's mouth, the kiss was bitingly harsh, John growled and broke the kiss feeling his impending orgasm surface as he rocked his crotch against the younger mans rhythmically.

"J-John" Sherlock whispered before his eyes flew wide, rolling back, his back arched and his neck fell down at an impossible angle. This sight was too much for John and he let himself go. The two entering a place of utter bliss, together.

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_Hey everyone, hope your enjoying this story, I have another chapter coming, still to write it though! Let me know what you think, encouragement is always awesome!_

_Stay Sherlocked!_


	6. Chapter 6

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John smiled as he lay on Sherlock's chest, looking up at the taller man; his grey eyes were open and unfocussed in the direction of the ceiling, his face was in the expression of euphoria and his heartbeat was slow and steady. Sherlock had been in this state of comatose for over half an hour with John running a pattern on the taller man's hairless chest with his index finger. Eventually, John decided to move, he rolled off the dark haired man and lay beside him, moving up the bed so that his head was equal with Sherlock's.

Sherlock did not speak, did not whimper or pout. He simply turned on his side and nestled his face into the warm crook of John's neck. John shifted them and smiled, wrapping both arms around his overwhelmed detective.

Soon, Sherlock's breathing became heavier, and his breaths on John's neck became longer. John smiled once more as he realised he had been in love with Sherlock for a long time, he just never thought Sherlock able to feel anything in return, but this was it. This was the moment he had been waiting for ever since he set eyes on the man in the lab at Barts; although, he would never admit it.

The afternoon was bright and warm. Mrs Hudson bustled up the stairs just before dinnertime. She had noticed the house was rather quieter than was usual these days so she ventured upstairs to clean and collect dirty dishes.

The Living room was pleasantly clean; Mrs Hudson stood in the doorway in shock as she saw no untidy piles of paper, no experiments and no new holes in the wall.

She moved around to the kitchen and saw the dishes were washed and the laundry was done. She paused as she glanced in the direction of Sherlock's bedroom door; it was open, which was unusual. She walked carefully and quietly across the hallway and peeked around the open door, her eyes surprisingly watering with what she saw; John was on his side, facing her and snoring lightly, there was a mop of dark hair on the pillow behind him and an arm wrapped over the good doctor possessively.

Mrs Hudson brought a hand up to her face and ran the back of her fingers against her mouth, holding back a happy sob. She quietly retreated down the stairs and into her kitchen to fetch herself a celebratory cup of tea and biscuit.

Sherlock woke sharply upon hearing the creak of the fourth step down on the staircase; he instinctively tightened his arm around John. He was not used to the new intensity of his hearing, he continued listening intently and heard the slight jingle of Mrs Hudson's cheap bangles, he relaxed immediately. The damage was done however, as John stirred and let out a small groan.

Sherlock loosened his hold as John shifted within the embrace. He turned on his back and looked sleepily up at Sherlock's face.

"Wha-chu- squeeze me for?" John asked, only half of his mouth obeying his speech. Sherlock smiled down at his companion with no other explanation than a slight shrug of his shoulders. John rubbed at his eyes and snuggled face in to Sherlock's chin.

"How did you sleep?" Sherlock asked John's hairline.

He received a simple nod against his chin in response.

Sherlock smiled. He closed his eyes contentedly and took a deep breath, smelling John's familiar scent.

"We should go out today" Sherlock mused, whispering into John's head of blonde hair.

John moved back a bit to look into Sherlock's face.

"I need to practice blocking out sound" Sherlock continues, his eyes still closed.

"Just don't block me out" John said with a light chuckle. At this small sentence, Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he looked intently at John before replying in a deep, stern voice.

"Never"

John smiled and snuggled into Sherlock once more, kissing the base of Sherlock's neck and catching the taller man by surprise.

John, to Sherlock's delight started to rekindle their earlier activities, his hands flying all over the detectives skin and it tore a rip in Sherlock's mind that he had to silence John, stopping his movements as he heard Mrs Hudson once more ascending the steps.

"John? I brought you boys some dinner, its almost six o clock I thought you would be hungry" Mrs Hudson called, popping her head around the doorway. Sherlock jumped at the sight of her, keeping his deaf disguise.

John spun his head round to see Mrs Hudson and he gave a sheepish smile;

"Thank you Mrs Hudson, we'll be out now." He said kindly. Well aware of his pink face due to his quickly dying arousal.

As Mrs Hudson retreated to their living room, John turned to Sherlock again with an 'oops' expression. Sherlock just smiled and kissed John's nose.

The pair finally rose from the sheets; John wrapping Sherlock's blue dressing gown around himself and Sherlock finding some pyjamas on his floor, they walked into the living room; decently covered.

"Ahh here you go boys, I made your favourite John, not sure if Sherlock will like it though." Mrs Hudson fussed as the boys sat down at the table. She poured them each a cup of tea and placed a plate of sausages, mashed potato and beans.

"I'm sure he will, thank you Mrs Hudson" John said gently.

Sherlock took a seat and looked dubiously at his food, looking back to John with a pleading expression.

John smiled and signed to Sherlock to eat it or he would not get what they had started a minute ago.

Mrs Hudson smiled at the silent couple, she took a seat at the end of the table and watched in amazement as Sherlock immediately picked up his cutlery and began shovelling the food into his mouth greedily.

John smiled at Mrs Hudson and continued with his own food.

After dinner, Mrs Hudson stood and put a hand on each of the men's shoulders, squeezing them affectionately. She then began quietly collecting the empty plates and cups before filling the tray once more and walking down the steps.

Sherlock's face was directed down at the bare table, his piercing eyes looking up through his eyelashes at John, the look of dangerous hunger.

John swallowed back a gulp and looked back at Sherlock timidly.

He signed across the table at Sherlock; 'we've just eaten, give it 20 minutes'.

Sherlock didn't blink, his hungry stare saying every word.

They stayed at this stalemate for another 10 minutes before Mrs Hudson's call reached them; "John! I'm just going out for a few things, will be back later if you need supper, not that I'm your housekeeper!" her smile was evident from the tone of her voice and John smirked as he shouted a reply;

"That's ok Mrs Hudson, we don't need supper!" as the men heard the front door close they launched at each other. Sherlock ripped open the dressing gown to reach John's skin, as John did the same with Sherlock's flannel pyjamas; they reached the floor with a heavy thud and carried on regardless.

When Mrs Hudson did return, she had bought some biscuits, some chocolate and some jam to throw together a nice supper for the three of them. She loaded up a tray and carried it carefully up the stairs once more.

She heard that the television was on as she entered the living room, seeing both men sitting side by side, if not a little close, on the couch under a duvet watching the subtitled Doctor Who.

"Yoo hoo, I just brought some supper up anyway, thought you boys might be hungry." Mrs Hudson winked and nodded to John as she came into their peripheral vision.

The boys thanked her and offered her a seat to watch David Tennant fly around the screen.

She gratefully accepted and sat on John's old armchair.

The evening was lovely, it felt different to all the other ones lately and Sherlock couldn't pin it. He had John as a lover now, which was obviously inevitable. Mrs Hudson was like his mother used to be, always looking after them as if they were her real sons. For the first time in his life; he felt reassurance, he felt that everything was going to be fine.

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The following morning; it was Lestrade who stumbled across the sighting of the consulting detective and doctor comfortable within their sheets. He was slightly less subtle than Mrs Hudson was in that he took a shocked step back and fell into the chest of drawers.

Luckily, Sherlock had been awake for some time and had seen the clatter of noise as he heard it, able to pretend he was still sleeping when the noise woke John immediately.

John jumped awake and sat up, his eyes not quite open but still able to see where his gun was pointing.

"I'm s-sorry, I didn't know. Sorry to wake you" Lestrade grumbled his hand on the back of his neck as he looked at John sheepishly.

John's breathing levelled out as he lowered his gun, placing it back under the pillow and looking to Sherlock beside him, still sound asleep.

Lestrade, much to John's surprise, sat down on the edge of the bed;

"How longs this been going on?" He asked, waving in Sherlock's general direction.

"What do you mean?" John questioned.

"Well, I'm worried; the man is obviously crumbling, going from completely self contained to needing someone with him all the time. Is he going to be ok?" Greg asked his tone of voice normal as he obviously thought Sherlock was still deaf.

John smiled. He looked up at Greg who in return looked puzzled.

"No, no, it's nothing like that. Me and Sherlock are…well, we're…" John tried to grasp a word that wouldn't repel Lestrade; "involved" he finished.

Lestrade stared at John as if he was half pig, half monster; "You….and Sherlock?" He questioned incredulously.

John nodded in reply, looking back down at the sleeping beauty.

"Is this part of the mental trauma he has?" Greg questioned his eyebrows high on his forehead.

Sherlock snorted in his sleep and turned over toward John, slinking his arm over John's stomach.

John laughed slightly, knowing full well Sherlock was awake and listening, he looked back to Lestrade; "No, no, he does not have mental trauma, he is no longer relying on me for things, he is fully functional again, except for his hearing of course." John added the last part quickly as he felt Sherlock's arm squeeze slightly.

"Let me get this straight…Sherlock has actually managed to get himself a relationship…with you?" Greg asked incredulously.

"Yes, I'm surprised you are shocked about it, loads of people have seen it coming for the last two years or so." John said causally.

"Oh, I knew _you_ liked him, I just didn't know _he_ was capable of returning the favour." Lestrade said, his gaze falling on the dark haired man now nuzzling into John's side.

John smiled; "Neither did I" He said looking to Lestrade.

John laid a hand on Sherlock's shoulder and gently shook him awake.

Sherlock's eyes fluttered open, ever the perfect actor, and he looked up at John questionably.

John nodded in the direction of Lestrade sitting next to John's covered feet.

Sherlock sat up at once, the duvet falling from his and John's bare chests.

"Lestrade, nice to see you" Sherlock said in a flat tone.

Greg nodded to Sherlock his hello before he got to his feet, he faced John again;

"I have a case for you both in you're interested?" John signalled to Sherlock and Sherlock nodded enthusiastically.

"Good, I'll just wait in the front room" Lestrade said, disappearing through the door.

Sherlock and John dressed silently and before going through the same door as Lestrade, John turned to Sherlock with a wicked smile. Sherlock looked down at John, the smile he was receiving headed straight for his abdomen. They shared a kiss and quick grope before they entered the kitchen.

"Ok, woman, early 20s, found dead in her boyfriends flat." Lestrade took a breath as he put his hand in the A4 brown envelope to pull out evidence and photographs. Sherlock simply put his hand on top of Lestrade's moving arm, stopping him dead.

"I want to see it." Sherlock said.

Lestrade nodded wordlessly, before signalling to follow him.

John sighed as he saw the dead woman, face up in the middle of the bed in the small city bed sit. It never got easier, seeing dead bodies, bodies that he could not help.

Sherlock immediately pounced on the bed; standing over the dead woman he surveyed the room.

John bit back the "Sherlock!" that almost escaped his mouth as he just looked up at him from the floor with a disapproving expression.

Lestrade glanced at John with a worried expression.

"I don't understand this is obviously murder, the hands of a lover" Sherlock stated as he jumped to the floor with a flourish, the coat billowing out like a cape behind him. He stood tall and faced Lestrade, his hands around his back.

"The boyfriend has been in prison for a year." Lestrade said, looking to John.

John signalled this to Sherlock and Sherlock nodded curtly, turning instantly on his heel and revisiting the body. A hand flew out behind his back and signalled John to give his medical opinion.

John leaned over the body for approximately 6 minutes and then spent another 2 minutes explaining to Sherlock that the woman died of the obvious multiple stab wounds to her stomach during intimate relations with person or person(s) unknown.

Sherlock nodded curtly once more before studying the rest of the bed sit.

John returned to Lestrade as per usual and stood beside him.

"John." Greg started, turning around to see if anyone else was in the room, as he decided it was safe he continued; "See, how, Sherlock has _feelings_ after all….do you think-" and here Lestrade's face took an obvious flush and he looked away "-do you think his brother would be similar?" He let out a small cough and John spotted Sherlock's pause as he examined the floor beside the fridge.

John looked at Lestrade with an open mouth.

"Oh right" He said, completely avoiding Lestrade's question, until he could think of an answer.

Lestrade turned once more to view the younger Holmes.

"I'm sorry, aren't you married?" John questioned surreptitiously.

"I was. Turns out Sherlock was right about the P.E. teacher at Christmas, they left about the time of Sherlock's accident." Lestrade explained quietly.

John felt saddened and his response was completely genuine; "I'm so sorry Greg, I didn't know" John looked at his feet.

"Oh no, you had enough on your plate" Lestrade said dismissively, nodding his head towards Sherlock who was now lying on the floor with his arm inside the open skirting board.

John smiled apologetically at Lestrade; "Still, I'm sorry you didn't tell us, all those times you came round and brought food, films, company, and we never asked" he said gently.

"Ah, well, it's done now. I was very glad to come round and help, I felt useful!" Lestrade said with heightened tone. "But, do you think, Mycroft, do you think he might be the same as Sherlock?" he whispered.

John looked over at Sherlock, now pulling himself across the floorboards towards the bathroom door.

"I'm really not sure, but I can ask?" John said tentatively.

Lestrade blushed once more; "No, no, no need for that." He said and he looked away.

John was going to ask Sherlock later, no doubt about it.

Sherlock jumped to his feet and approached the two shorter men briskly.

"The female who killed this woman is this woman's mistress. She found out that there was to be a child, and in the middle of things, she stabbed the child and the woman to death. Jealous and murderous tendencies then. The father of the child was to be one; Frank Thorn of Thorn Industries, we know this because of a fake billing invoice on the kitchen counter for coal pebbles – which she had no use for - and this box of protective rubber gloves that she obviously does not use for anything, therefore they are his. He clearly still visits as there is a shoebox of compromising photographs inside the skirting board, she wouldn't hide them if it was over, she would dispose of them. She hides them well though, meaning she knew the jealous tendencies of her mistress well." Sherlock stops to take breath and faces Lestrade once more; ignoring John's lust filled eyes and parted wet mouth.

"In the fridge there are photographs, stored in the freezer tray at the bottom, photographs of the mistress…I presume she works at the local table dancers club, she is blonde, size 5 feet, and unless I am very much mistaken, she will smell of grapefruit." Sherlock popped his mouth around 'grapefruit' as he finished, smiling down at the Detective Inspector and his friend.

"How on earth did you know to look in the fridge drawer?" Lestrade asked incredulously, one eye slightly larger than the other giving the appearance of a mad man.

Sherlock turned to John, attempting to ignore the visible pulse beat in his neck and the constant licking of his lips, Sherlock briefly wondered how he had always missed the obvious signs that John Watson was attracted to him.

John snapped into reality as he glanced quickly between Lestrade and Sherlock; he then signed the last question and Sherlock smiled;

"No one ever uses it" he said simply. "The perfect place to hide a guilty pleasure."

"And the grapefruit?" Lestrade questioned.

John paused…they didn't have a sign for grapefruit.

Sherlock looked puzzled between the two men until John signalled; 'smell'

Sherlock took a moment – making it look convincing before he turned to Lestrade; "Two sets of Shampoo, conditioner and bodywash in the bathroom, the rose set is obviously this woman. The grapefruit must belong to the other. Simple deduction" Sherlock finished.

Lestrade shuffled on his feet, putting his hands in his back pockets and looking around the scene;

"Thank you Sherlock, John, saved me again" he said gratefully; more to John than to Sherlock. And with that he turned to leave the scene, shouting out for forensics to re-enter and check the skirting boards.

Sherlock took a step forward and looked down intensely at John;

"Do you always make it this obvious when you are lusting?" he rumbled in his deepest voice.

John closed his eyes briefly and took in a shaky breath.

"I can count your pulse without touching you" Sherlock continued in his lowest tone, the sound making John shiver as it ghosted across his face.

"Don't lose it now, John, let's go home and solve it together" Sherlock finished in a growl.

John came to his senses as Anderson and co. bundled in the door noisily.

"Ok, but first, can we visit Mycroft?" John whispered as he did not want anyone to know that Sherlock can now hear.

Sherlock took a step back; "No, John, you can't set them up" Sherlock whispered dangerously, his hand pointing to John to emphasise his point.

John looked about him and saw Anderson glaring at the two of them; he took to signing;

'_Why not? What if Mycroft is lonely just like we were? Would he not be happy to know of Lestrade's interest?"_

Sherlock watched the signing carefully, his mind translating and adding John's voice to it to present it back to his brain. He sighed and replied with sign;

'_I think it could be very dangerous for Lestrade if Mycroft knows'_

John took a little longer to understand the signing than Sherlock did and Sherlock patiently waited until John nodded curtly to signal his understanding.

'_Come on, lets go, Anderson is staring at your butt' _John signalled. Sherlock immediately snapped his head in the direction of Anderson, who was leaning causally on the wall beside the door; he was indeed, staring at the pair of them with a snarl on his face. Sherlock sniggered and did something wholly unexpected; he grabbed John's hand, slowly wrapping it through his arm before walking slowly and silently past Anderson, John by his side and blushing slightly.

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	7. Chapter 7

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"Come on Sherlock, think of your brother. He's obviously active in that way. I know that he has been trying to get us two to see each other for a long time, well, I only realised it the other day, but still, he wouldn't deny you a chance at happiness. Lestrade really likes him, where's the danger in that?" John reasoned, sitting cross – legged on the couch watching Sherlock pace the living room in his bed sheet.

"It's not the damage Lestrade could do Mycroft, it's the psychological damage my brother could cause Lestrade." Sherlock said harshly. "Mycroft destroys people."

John snorted with laughter; "Sherlock, Lestrade might be the one that Mycroft needs, come on, for me" John pleaded gently with his eyes and Sherlock looked at them dejectedly.

"Will you accept full responsibility?" Sherlock asked dubiously as he walked over to the couch and planted his right hand firmly in John's hair, tilting his face upwards for Sherlock to see his eyes clearly.

John smiled widely before nodding, making Sherlock's arm jerk forward and backward almost comically.

"Come on then, lets go and see Mycroft." Sherlock said in a forlorn drone.

John jumped up and hugged sheeted Sherlock tightly.

"Alright, alright, come on soldier, pull yourself together. Oh, I'd better get dressed…you had too" Sherlock said with a smirk at John's boxer shorts.

"Dear brother, what brings you to visit on this…rainy day?" Mycroft said in his smooth and very English voice. He sat behind a very large mahogany desk; it was extremely well polished with no paperwork in sight.

The room was dark, miserable and cold; John couldn't help but feel dubious about his own plan – maybe Mycroft was worse than Sherlock when it came to emotions and sentiment. He shifted slightly in the cold leather chair opposite the older Holmes.

When Sherlock didn't answer immediately, Mycroft tilted his head to one side and surveyed the silent man. John recognised the look, he was deducting.

"Come, come little brother, you cannot fool me, I know your hearing has returned." Mycroft said after a few moments of silence.

"I knew you would know." Sherlock said quickly. "However, I would prefer it if it was kept secret for the time being." He added a quick smile that vanished in a flash.

"I also knew that, otherwise you would not try to hide it from me." Mycroft replied hastily without moving a muscle.

"Anyway, we are not here to discuss my health." Sherlock dismissed, laying a bare hand on the shiny dark wood for only a moment before removing it.

Mycroft twitched at the fingerprints left behind on his immaculate desk.

"Why, then?" Mycroft asked with a smile that was almost a grimace as he fetched a tissue from his sleeve and leant over his desk to wipe away the impurities on its surface.

"We are here to inform you of –" Sherlock started but stopped when John coughed loudly to indicate to him to shut up.

Mycroft looked between the two as they shared a glance.

John took over the situation; "Mycroft, DI Greg Lestrade –" he began but was interjected by the older man.

"You came here to set me up in a _relationship_?" Mycroft asked incredulously.

"This was not _my _idea, Mycroft" Sherlock muttered, looking to John.

"Oh, of course…but _you_ gave in didn't you?" Mycroft said, smiling slightly at the epiphany he appeared to have just had.

Sherlock looked away, allowing a small cough as a blush tinged his neck. "I don't know what you mean, Mycroft" he said aloofly.

"Oh yes you do. How did you find it?" Mycroft whispered, his elbows came to rest upon the desk as he moved forward, his hands barrelled at his chin as he eagle eyed his brother.

"Meretricious" Sherlock bit sharply.

"It was not" Mycroft said with a smirk. "You enjoyed every minute, so much so that it has re-occurred no less than…three times since"

Sherlock held Mycroft's gaze and let out a small laugh.

Mycroft joined in, the brothers now laughing heartily at their conversation.

John looked between the two with an open mouthed confusion.

"I'm sorry, what – what just happened?" the doctor asked, his eyes wide, his face expressionless.

"So you are to be my brother's ward" Mycroft said, recovering from his chuckling enough to smile across at John.

John's eyes grew larger as he stared at Sherlock. Sherlock kept his piercing blue eyes fixed on his brother and did not turn to see John's desperate look.

"Do relax, John, you are amongst family now" Mycroft said gently, leaning back in his chair.

John's breathing had increased dramatically as he stared at the desk in front of him.

Mycroft knew, the British Government knew about John & Sherlock.

Sherlock saw the warning signs and braced John's left leg with his hand.

John looked up at Sherlock and could read the reassurance in his eyes.

Sherlock then turned back to Mycroft, not removing his hand, and spoke in his usual gentle baritone;

"Mycroft, how did you know about Lestrade?"

Mycroft sneered and turned his chair with a slight touch to the floor, staring out of the window.

"He makes it so _obvious_. He came to my office, to bring me lunch a couple of days ago. Made so many jokes about how one could work in such 'luxury'."

Sherlock smiled lightly. "It does help" he said quietly, making his older brother turn to him questioningly. "It helps to switch it off, Mycroft."

"I do not want that and neither did you. That is precisely why we do not drink alcohol Sherlock. We are higher functioning beings; we are _supposed _to be sociopaths, keep our wits about us all of the time, that is how we succeed, that is how we survive." Mycroft hissed.

John's eyebrows lifted from a frown he was unaware of having in comprehension of the discussion at hand.

Sherlock fixed his brother with a piercing stare. "But we still have needs, we are still human" he said fiercely.

Mycroft laughed; "My little brother is teaching _me_ about the world" he said bitterly.

"I didn't realise just how much I needed John. You may be the same with Lestrade. He obviously cares for you. Just ensure that you do not break him, I need a trustworthy officer on the force." Sherlock finished, his gaze unmoved from his brother's face.

They shared a look as Mycroft mulled it over, he then sat forward once more and looked from Sherlock to John before looking down at his clasped hands; "Thank you. I will see what can be done."

Sherlock stood, with John following suit. Just before they reached the door however, Mycroft looked up;

"Oh, and Sherlock?" Sherlock spun on his heel and looked back at his brother. "You might want to examine every inch of your vision when playing deaf. The lack of it is _obvious_". The three men smiled at the inside joke before Sherlock and John exited the room, leaving Mycroft with his thoughts.

"Do you think that went well?" John questioned, sitting in the taxi.

Sherlock smiled and looked out of the window nearest him; "Surprisingly well" he said.

"I hope they get together. I feel really sorry for Lestrade." John mused, looking at his feet.

"Don't be" Sherlock said as he scooted closer to John on the taxi bench, their knees now making contact. "They will work it out, just like we did" he said, uncharacteristically soft toned.

John smiled up at the man sitting beside him. He sought out his hand and clasped them together tightly, resting them on the leather material between them.

The following day was dreary. John stood a little way off, his hands deep in his pockets, his neck creased to allow the collar of his coat to reach his chin. The rain was heavier now than it was when they had arrived at the docks and he could feel the wetness seeping through his trainers. He shivered.

Lestrade approached him, his own hands deep in his coat pockets too, his stance mirroring John's.

"So, Mycroft called me" He whispered when he was less than a foot away from John.

John tried his best at a surprised glance, Sherlock would have seen through it in a flash but Lestrade obviously didn't disbelieve it.

"Yeah, he called me out of the blue. Asked me to take lunch over to him tomorrow." Greg smiled sheepishly.

John smiled widely. "How are you going to…." John left the end of the sentence open, knowing full well that Lestrade would get his meaning.

"I dunno, how did you woo yours?" Lestrade asked quietly.

John shrugged. "I tell him how bodies died. I shout at him when he annoys me. I bathe him when he's injured. Shared a bed with him when we had nightmares" he said, blushing a little and looking over to Sherlock, who was currently lying on the dirty ground beside the body.

Lestrade followed his gaze wondering how he could possibly seduce the British Government. John turned back to Lestrade with a firm expression.

"You can't control the situation, Greg, with these two; it's like walking on eggshells. You have to wait for Mycroft to make the decision, and trust me, when he does, you'll know about it and you will be pulled along until your dying day. You might as well admit now that you are never going to be in control of him." John finished as his eyes met Greg's.

Greg nodded curtly, looking down for a moment and then returning his gaze to the shorter man.

"Have you always been the submissive one, John?" he asked with wide eyes.

John laughed. "Greg, I was a captain and doctor in the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers. I have always been in charge. But when I'm beside Sherlock, I don't have to be."

Lestrade nodded again. "You feel safe with him, don't you? Even when in danger, you feel safe as long as he's around".

It was John's turn to nod, wide eyed at Greg.

"Do you love him, John?" Lestrade questioned.

John's breath caught in his throat as the rain continued to pour. After a few seconds of silence John replied, looking across the muddy area to _the_ man in _the_ coat.

"Yes" He said, looking back to Greg with an expressionless face.

"Is – is he capable of loving back?" Greg asked.

"Is Mycroft?" John answered the man with a question.

The pair stood in silence for a minute before Lestrade cupped John's wet shoulder with his gloved hand, expressing a 'cheerio' before walking towards Sherlock for his result.

Sherlock stared at the dead man. He could see many clues, but no case.

"Suicide" He dismissed as he walked briskly past Lestrade in the direction of John.

Lestrade knew it was pointless to try and call out after Sherlock so he walked back over to the crew of forensics and asked them to take over.

Sherlock reached John, a look of concern written plainly across his brow. "John, why didn't you stand under the canopy?" Sherlock questioned.

"I didn't want to cramp your style" John replied in a whisper, smiling up at his man.

Sherlock smiled back before putting his arm around John's shoulders, turning him to walk back up the way they came.

Once at the main road, Sherlock hailed a taxi and the two sopping wet men clambered inside.

Once back at Baker Street, Sherlock bounded up the stairs and ran into the bathroom, leaving a cold and wet John at the foot of the staircase explaining to Mrs Hudson that the weather was abysmal.

"John!" Sherlock's shout alerted John immediately and he excused himself from their landlady before running up the stairs to see if Sherlock was alright.

Once in the bathroom door, Sherlock ambushed him, closing and locking the door behind him, he began working the wet clothes off of John in a frenzy.

"Sherlock" John said quietly. "Sherlock!" when he wasn't listening. "_Sherlock!" _Sherlock stopped when he had reached the last article of wet clothing.

"What are you doing?" John asked, but then, he didn't need to ask, he spotted the bath; filled with hot bubbly water making the bathroom steamy and warm. He smiled up at the apprehensive looking taller man before beginning to remove Sherlock's wet clothes also. Sherlock smiled and let himself be undressed, he held John's hand as he clambered into the hot water, steadying John as he climbed in too.

John sat between Sherlock's legs, his back against the cold chest of the brunette as he allowed himself to be wrapped in a hug.

After a few minutes of just warming up in their bath, Sherlock rested John's head against his collar bone as he looked down at his arms around the smaller mans chest.

"I heard what you said to Lestrade" Sherlock murmured, his mouth not more than 2 inches from John's ear. John shivered, feeling Sherlock's stomach tensing underneath his back.

"What did you hear?" John asked, his eyes closed as he leaned back into his detective.

"That you loved me" Sherlock said coolly.

John stiffened a bit before trying again to relax. His eyes opened and he tilted his head towards Sherlock's face.

"Is it true?" Sherlock asked in a whisper, looking down at John's face in puzzlement.

John blinked as he looked up into the face of his hero.

"Of course" John murmured, not breaking eye contact.

"Well, I knew that you loved me, I'll admit, but are you _in love _with me, John?" Sherlock said rapidly.

John smiled at Sherlock's clueless-ness in such matters; he decided to use actions rather than words and signalled a simple;

_Yes._

Sherlock removed his left arm from around John's midriff and brought it up to cup John's jaw as he angled his head and lay a sweet kiss against John's lips.

John smiled when they broke apart; Sherlock continued to run his hand along the length of John's neck and studied his eyes for a few minutes before he paused.

"Dearest Dr Watson." He proclaimed, running his finger tips down the side of John's face.

John's eyes widened as he looked up at the mouth that was talking, he was expecting the words that he felt sure Sherlock would never say when Sherlock's eyes changed tone, his gentle expression fell from his face leaving a cold and calculating exterior.

"That was not a suicide. It was made to _look_ like a suicide!" he hissed. The hand that had so briefly before been soft on John's skin was now pushing John away as the consulting detective hopped out of the bath and into the corridor, only just managing to wrap a towel around himself.

John sighed heavily and fell back into the bath water; he pulled his head underneath the bubbles and stayed there, unable to hear his flatmate's ranting on the telephone or the inner details of how the pretend suicide was done. He felt warm and calm under the hot water's surface.

After a few minutes Sherlock returned to the bathroom to see no sign of John.

"John?" Sherlock asked the empty room. He then spotted a bubble rising in the bathtub and wiped away some of the foam to see his lover laying calm in the haze of water. He smiled and kneeled beside the bath, popping his head underneath the surface, he made contact with John's lips and held them there, eventually, John parted his lips to receive some air from the taller man, and the kiss deepened once John had sat up in the rapidly cooling water.

After a while, they broke apart, staring hungrily at each other. Sherlock admired the way he could make John gasp for air, he liked the way John's eyes went black with desire, he also loved the way that John's mouth looked after a feverish kiss; red, plump and moist.

He loved John.

The realisation hit Sherlock like a long lost answer found in one of the visits to his mind palace.

He stared at John, his own breaths coming in sharp gasps. John clambered to his knees in the hard enamelled bath, he reached up and tangled his hands in the soft curls on top of Sherlock's head and crashed his lips to the detectives once more. Sherlock could tell how desperate John was to be close to him, he could _feel _it, and he could feel it because he felt the same.

Just as John broke for air once more, resting his face against Sherlock's with his eyes closed, both of them pressing against the bath wall between them, Sherlock chose his moment;

"I love you John" he said, his lips brushing John's for a fraction of a second as he moved them to speak.

John froze and then nuzzled into Sherlock's face like a horse would over the fence with his neighbour.

"Bed" John whispered, his lips pecking at Sherlock's with need.

"I'm the one that's in charge, remember?" Sherlock growled into John's mouth.

John smiled as he sat back on his heels in the water. Licking his lips and looking obediently up at his hero.

"That's better" Sherlock said as he stood once more to lock the door, he moved swiftly back to the bath and unplugged the drain. The water drained quickly and Sherlock turned on the shower. "Stand up" he ordered his doctor.


	8. Chapter 8

Pre-final chapter introduction;

_Some time has passed; both men are contented, continuing their blogging and solving of crimes and mysteries as normal. John is the happiest he has ever been. DI Lestrade has been made aware of Sherlock's non-deafness and his desire to keep it secret._

"John! I'm bored" Sherlock moaned, sprawled on the swivel chair at the desk in the living room. His head was laid back and his legs were pushing the chair around in circles as he stared at the ceiling. John grabbed the back of the chair, stopping its ability to move and looked down at Sherlock.

"Put some clothes on and sit down in your armchair. We have visitors in half an hour." John said calmly.

"Visitors?" Sherlock questioned incredulously.

"Yes, visitors, now, hurry it up" John said as he mushed Sherlock out of the room.

John returned to his seat at the kitchen table and ate the fresh piece of toast he had covered with jam, he started thinking about jam. It was a strange thing for a doctor to like to _eat_ a food that resembled blood and guts, but then it was strange for a doctor – a man of hygiene - to eat food that had been in the fridge with a human head. He shrugged it off, turning his attention to the newspaper.

"Jam, jam jaaaaam" He sang quietly and absentmindedly as he munched his way through his mid morning snack; reading a story about a local millionaire finding a golden shoe in his garden, he was so intrigued by the story that he didn't notice the man leaning over his shoulder until he had taken a bite of John's toast.

John jumped and turned to see Sherlock smiling mischievously at him as he munched his mouthful of stolen snack. John was angry at first, but melted at Sherlock's smile and leaned up to kiss him.

"Mm. You. Taste. Like. Jam." John said in-between kisses. Sherlock chuckled slightly as he let himself be kissed.

"Don't let us interrupt you" came Mycroft's distinct English drawl from the couch where he and Lestrade sat, looking on the scene with mild amusement. John fired himself back ward at the interruption, standing quickly, looking guilty.

Lestrade laughed and Mycroft chuckled. Sherlock wrapped an arm around John and manoeuvred them to the seating area beside the fire. He sat John down and proceeded to perch himself on the arm rest.

"Lestrade…if that smile is anything to go by; all your Christmases came at once yesterday" Sherlock said in an upbeat tone as he removed a tissue from his suit jacket inner pocket and gently wiped away the jam from John's face.

Greg turned a lovely shade of pink as he shifted a little on the couch beside Mycroft.

Mycroft looked practically proud as he watched this transformation of Greg's white skin.

"Did you have a nice Christmas?" John asked as he looked from one man to the other.

Lestrade looked up at Mycroft with a pleading glance, Mycroft sighed and rolled his eyes affectionately before nodding for Greg to continue.

"We're getting a civil partnership" Greg said shyly.

John practically _heard _Sherlock's jaw drop and he smiled widely.

"Congratulations guys, that's huge news" John said, immediately jumping to his feet to shake each mans hand in celebration.

Sherlock remained seated like a chunk of marble as his brother approached him.

"Little brother, would you do the honour – " Mycroft started.

"No" Sherlock interjected.

"What do you mean; _no_?" Mycroft said incredulously.

"Mycroft, a word" Sherlock said as he stood and walked briskly from the room. He stood in the corridor awaiting his brother to follow.

In the living room, Lestrade and John shared a confused look before John lifted his eyebrows and let out a big sigh, asking Greg if he would like some tea.

John stood close to the kitchen bunker as the kettle boiled, straining his ears over the electrical appliance to hear what the brothers were discussing, to no avail he went back to Lestrade and asked him how Mycroft had asked him to spend the rest of his life with him.

"Sherlock, if you are going to try and talk me out of this, I cannot stand here and listen" Mycroft drawled, as he stood firmly looking down slightly at his younger brother.

"Mycroft, I need your h-help" Sherlock said looking at the floor before looking back up at his older brother with pleading eyes.

Mycroft smiled and looked proud as he puffed up his chest and stood straight.

"I am, dear brother, here to help" He said quietly.

"How did you ask?" Sherlock whispered, with this small question the completeness of Sherlock's predicament hit Mycroft hard.

"Ah, so you wanted to ask, but you didn't know how, and now you are embarrassed that I got there before you. How trivial, Sherlock" Mycroft said fondly.

"Mycroft" Sherlock said with clenched teeth. "Can I…can I share…" Sherlock stopped to take a deep breath before Mycroft shushed him with a pat on his shoulder – Sherlock flinched as though he had been punched by his brother, unused to the contact.

"Sherlock, you ask Watson tonight, order in some food, and if necessary ask him in your own sign language – just tell him _the truth_." Mycroft paused to smile; "And I would be delighted to share the date, time and location." He added.

Sherlock's smile was wide and true, he looked up at his brother with an almost disbelieving expression. Much to Mycroft's surprise and horror, Sherlock lunged for him, for the first time in their lives Sherlock wrapped his arms around his brother. It was awkward; all elbows and chins, but it was the only way Sherlock could express his gratitude and Mycroft understood that.

After they broke apart, Mycroft reached out and brushed a hand across Sherlock's forehead, pushing curls out of his face.

"What power an ex-army doctor and a detective inspector have" he murmured. Sherlock smiled weakly in reply.

Before long, the two taller men prepared to re-enter the living room. Once through the door, Sherlock smiled to John and resumed his perch on the side of his armchair whilst Mycroft smiled to Lestrade and retrieved his umbrella;

"Well, Greg, I think we should leave these two to their…toast" Mycroft said, pointing to the kitchen. He smiled once more at the two men beside the fireplace and led Lestrade out and down the steps.

The living room remained quiet until the distinct bang of the front door could be heard.

"So, what was all that about?" John asked, looking up at the silent statue that was Sherlock Holmes.

"Oh, nothing" Sherlock shrugged before jumping to his feet, pacing slightly and rubbing his thumb and index finger on his right hand together agitatedly.

"It was clearly about something" John said watching his partner's activity with a straight face.

Sherlock suddenly stopped. He took in the time, 12:04. He examined John's jeans; he hadn't been out this morning. His eyes travelled over John's face in a millisecond; Stamford, electric razor, new blog posted early this morning. Sherlock reached for his coat;

"I'm going out. I have to tell Mrs Hudson about my hearing. You might want to have a nap." The taller man said firmly and rather coldly, John was taken aback for a moment, Sherlock walked briskly towards him, fixing his scarf; he bent down and shared a brief kiss with the doctor before he was gone.

John blinked. He looked from the thin air in front of him to the empty doorway on his right.

He then chuckled lightly and made his way to their bedroom; he could do with an afternoon nap, after all, he had cut himself shaving that morning because he hadn't had much sleep due to being worried about Stamford being alone, not to mention he was hurrying to get to his blog before he forgot their latest case.

John Watson woke that evening to a marvellous smell of food wafting through from the living room. He was starving. Slowly he sat up and rubbed at his eyes, he must have been tired, he had slept for over 5 hours. Slowly getting to his feet and worrying in case he couldn't sleep later that night, he lazily shifted to the door and opened it.

"You napped in your clothes" Sherlock stated softly, not looking up from where he was lighting two candles on the dining room table.

John rubbed at his eyes once more before glancing around the kitchen once more; no experiments, just fresh food, and candles.

"Did you tell Mrs Hudson about your hearing?" John questioned with a yawn.

"Yes, expected reaction was achieved. She is very happy" Sherlock smiled briefly "Sit down" Sherlock invited, indicating a seat at the table, already laid out with John's favourite from the Chinese take away.

"Wow Sherlock" John said gruffly as he looked down at the spread. "Candles?" he asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Power cut" Sherlock answered abruptly.

John glanced around him once more; the flat was in complete darkness, why hadn't he noticed before? "Odd" John said absentmindedly.

"They are working on the lines; the power has been off all day." Sherlock said as he took a seat opposite his partner.

"You drinking wine?" John asked incredulously as he spotted Sherlock reach for his glass.

Sherlock looked down into it and back up at John. "You've seen me drink alcohol before John" he said quietly.

"Only when you have had a shock" John murmured softly as he picked up his fork and began hungrily attacking his noodles.

When Sherlock didn't move, John looked up at him with a noodle hanging from his mouth, Sherlock smiled fondly as he watched John suck the last of it up into his mouth.

"Are you ok?" John questioned.

"Oh yes" Sherlock answered quietly.

They ate their dinner silently, even the icy street outside seemed quiet and peaceful. But Sherlock's mind was whirring. How was he going to ask this, is John going to think it's just because Mycroft is getting _attached_?

"John." Sherlock blurted. It was a start.

John looked up at Sherlock as he finished off his dish.

"I don't know how to ask about this" Sherlock said truthfully. "Its not because of Mycroft and Lestrade, honest it isn't. I was going to ask you yesterday – as a Christmas present, but then I got…I got, I was too…and pretended I had written you a violin piece instead."

John carefully placed his fork down on the plate, not breaking eye contact with the man across the table.

Sherlock sat for a long while, staring down at the table surface, his fork sitting idly in his right hand, his food remaining untouched.

"Sherlock, sign it to me" John said gently.

Sherlock looked up at John then, saw the gentleness, the encouragement, the capable assistant he had always longed for. He smiled weakly, placing his fork on the table's surface. Raising his hands before his face, he signalled.

'_You…._' he froze; he didn't even know the words to sign.

"Damnit John, will you marry me?" Sherlock demanded in obvious frustration as he stood from his seat and stared down at John. The chair he was sitting on a few moments prior flew to the floor with a bang.

John's initial panic at Sherlock's outburst turned into a faint smile as he looked up at his detective.

Sherlock's eyebrows knitted together as he examined John's facial expression change.

"Sherlock, come here" John said quietly as he got to his own two feet and stood with his arms outstretched to Sherlock.

The taller man obeyed silently letting the older man hold him by the shoulders.

"Are you sure you want to marry me, Sherlock?" John questioned seriously, scanning the mysterious man's face.

"Of course" Sherlock said, a frown flashing his face for a mere moment "I've never been so sure of anything in my life" he said bluntly.

John let out a small breath before asking; "What about your work?" John questioned.

"Nothing will change, John. Just that you will never leave me" Sherlock said quietly.

"Do you think I would leave you?" John asked in disbelief.

"Everybody does. All lives end, all hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage, but, I do care, obviously logic didn't win this round" Sherlock said, his face expressionless.

"Sherlock, I would never leave you. I was so alone before I met you. I owe you so much." John was fighting back emotion now as he tightly gripped the taller man's shoulders.

"I love you John" Sherlock said, to his surprise his own voice faltered, a strange lump had formed in his throat, making it difficult to talk.

John watched in awe as a lone tear fell from Sherlock's bright grey eyes, John brought his hands up to Sherlock's neck and stood on the very tips of his toes to kiss away the tear. Sherlock closed his eyes tight as he felt John's lips brush his cheek.

John then brought his lips down to Sherlock's own pale ones, whispering across them; "I love you so much, and yes I will marry you, Sherlock Holmes" before he kissed him.

Sherlock shivered from head to foot. He was not expecting what he had just received. A punch in the face, maybe, a gasp or two, more than probably and a slam of the door to follow; possibility, but, an understanding, encouragement, a kiss; that was unexpected.

After a minute or two the pair broke apart and smiled warmly at one another.

"Bed?" John asked.

"What about Dessert?" Sherlock asked with a furrowed brow.

"You got dessert?" John asked incredulously.

"Scones…with strawberry jam" Sherlock said with a wicked smile.

John looked torn; after an agonising 2 minutes, John smiled up at Sherlock;

"Maybe just the one, then bed" he said with a chuckle, resuming his seat as Sherlock walked to the pantry.

The day was bright and warm. John stood in the hallway of 221B, Mrs Hudson adjusting his Ivory coloured silk neck tie as his hands fidgeted.

Mrs Hudson wore a light green summers dress, she exclaimed that she had been keeping it for a special occasion and couldn't think of an event more special than today's.

"That's you done deary, look at you, very handsome indeed" Mrs Hudson cooed as she fetched her hat from the banister and stood in front of the mirror to fix it.

"Ready?" She asked when she had finished.

John nodded curtly before they threw open the main door and got into the police car that waited outside.

Mrs Hudson and John were quiet on the way to the registry office, only glancing at each other every so often to exchange smiles.

Once the police car had pulled up outside the entrance and turned off the lights, John grabbed Mrs Hudson's hand.

"What if he isn't in there?" He asked calmly.

Mrs Hudson smiled warmly. "He wouldn't do that to you, John. Anyone else, yes, but not to you."

John smiled thankfully and opened the car door.

The two walked arm in arm up the steps into the red brick building and spotted Lestrade standing in the lobby.

They greeted one another warmly before Greg picked up an ivory rose head and pin that was sitting next on the front desk.

"Sherlock, requested you wear this" He said gruffly as he began to pin the rose to John's lapel.

John smiled tightly at Greg and looked down at the Detective Inspectors' lapel; housing a fascinating silver coloured rose head to match his neck tie.

"The Holmes boys know how to dress us" John said with a light chuckle, Greg joined in with his own.

"They certainly do" he said, before looking between Mrs Hudson and John; "You ready to face the music then?" He asked.

"Why the hell not" John replied with a smile.

Mrs Hudson walked arm in arm with Greg and John toward the small door at the end of the passageway, with a glance at each of his friends, John pushed open the door to see Mycroft and Sherlock standing side by side, they both turned inward to see the entrances of their companions. Each wore a black suit, Sherlock wearing an ivory waistcoat underneath a sharp black tail coat; exactly as John was wearing. Mycroft's outfit mirrored Greg's. The sight of the two Holmes' made John gasp, they were impressive together, there was no denying that. The heart of the British Government and Law standing straight backed in their finest attire at the impressively large registry desk.

John couldn't look away; he spotted those sharp eagle grey eyes from the 6 yards, staring right back at him, his hands behind his back and his half smile directed at John.

Mrs Hudson let go of John's arm as the men reached their partners, bringing John sharply back to earth. He looked around the room they were now in, it was a breathtaking sight.

The windows were large and gave the magnolia coloured walls and drapes light and air; the room was wide, rectangular in shape with chairs lining the isle. John stared over the small crowd that was gathered; Mrs Hudson, Anthea, Harry Watson & Stamford.

John returned his attention to the tall genius that was watching him eagerly.

"Hi" John whispered as he smiled up at the consulting detective.

Sherlock smiled. "Hi" he replied, taking John's hand and facing the desk, John following suit.

The four stood, Mycroft on the far left with Greg and Sherlock on the far right with John.

Mrs Hudson let out a happy sniffle and brought a tissue to her nose as the ceremony started. Anthea moved her hand over Mrs Hudson's free one as a reassuring gesture, only to retrieve the same motion from Harry Watson beside her. Anthea glanced up at Harry with a questioning expression and smiled as Harriett winked.

The ceremony was brief and to the point, John smiled at this; just like Sherlock & Mycroft.

The person leading the proceedings made short work of the four rings, the agreement and the signing.

There were no photographs and there were no open displays of affection, however, the whole room knew that this was normal and John did receive several hidden but reassuring squeezes on his hand.

When the registry was signed and the ceremony was over, John smiled up at Sherlock once he had written his new name in line with Sherlock's, Sherlock ran his eyes over the line in the book and let a wide smile polish his face;

_Sherlock Watson-Holmes (Consulting Detective) & John Hamish Holmes-Watson (Doctor)_

It was what they had agreed upon after all. Mrs Hudson threw a handful of Confetti over the four men as they retreated back down the isle and into the lobby once more.

Sherlock took John's hand for the second time that day, leading him out of the building and down the steps.

Surprise, surprise, there was the Sherlock Holmes fans' and blog readers, standing around the two smart black Government cars.

Sherlock turned and grabbed Mrs Hudson's hand in his free one, making sure the two made it into the first car unscathed. He stood above the crowd to ensure the others were safely tucked into the second car before he clambered in, ignoring the shouts and requests for photographs.

Inside the first car, John held Sherlock's hand tightly, he couldn't stop smiling. He had married his hero and now they were off to a mystery location. He had butterflies in his stomach and the adrenaline still coursed through his veins from the ceremony.

Sherlock seemed to wordlessly understand as he cupped John's hand in both of his own, a calming gesture.

"I'm expecting the promises sealed at some point Holmes" John murmured.

"Sealed?" Sherlock queried.

"Yes, you know, the –" John did not get chance to finish his sentence as his husbands lips found his. It was a church kiss, but could have easily become more if Mrs Hudson had not been in the same vehicle.

Mrs Hudson smiled at her boys. She was so proud and happy for them. She had resigned to the fact that she would have to be their housekeeper some months ago as they certainly could not at all look after themselves, but she was happy to do so, these boys were like the sons she never had.

They pulled up to a large building, the cars parking underneath the sculpted canopy of the entrance. Sherlock opened his door and lifted his hand to assist John out of the car. The driver opened Mrs Hudson's door and the three met up with the five from the second car. The merry group entered the building and went into the function room; there were a lot of people. John did not recognise all of the faces, only a few.

"Sherlock?" John asked with a worried expression.

Sherlock turned to his doctor and smiled. "Nothing like crashing a MET Police bash" he whispered.

John beamed.

The eight mingled with the assembled crowds in the function room, taking advantage of the free food and drink until the music died down and a smartly dressed ranking officer took to the stage with a microphone.

"Well, ladies and gentlemen, it's that time of the evening to award the well deserved achievements of the year awards."

Sherlock signalled to John to head back to the buffet table, where the two stood quietly in the shadows, John munching on the sausage rolls beside them.

After 45 minutes of awards presented and shy speeches told, the last award finally came into view.

"For the last award of the evening, I would like to just check that a Mister Sherlock Holmes is present?" John stopped mid chew as he looked up at Sherlock.

The taller man remained silent and stationary. Twenty or so of the folk present had turned to look at them, signalling that he was in fact there. John shyly dusted the pastry off his wedding attire and shuffled a step away from the consulting detective, only to be grabbed by his arm mid movement; Sherlock brought him close.

Whether it was for support or encouragement, John didn't know, but he did as he was directed and stood beside his companion.

"On behalf of the Metropolitan Police Service, I would like to thank Sherlock Holmes, whom, without his baffling and sharp deduction skills, we would not have managed to capture the five hundred and sixty five criminals that he assisted us in finding in the last year." There was a pause here, in which the crowd clapped politely.

"'Sherlock is a great man, and if we are very, very lucky, he may even be a good one' Greg Lestrade told me once, however, I do believe that Mister Sherlock Holmes has fulfilled this prediction more than once in the last year, he is on our side, and as we know, our side is the good side; the side of the angels." The officer stated, the crowd erupted into a louder applause at this one, a few people turning to look at Sherlock.

"At the beginning of last year, Sherlock lost his hearing in pursuit of the ultimate criminal, James Moriarty. Although, it was for a good cause as Mr Moriarty is no longer at large; it was a tremendous loss to the job. I now have it on good authority that he has made a full recovery"

The officer looked shiftily up at the crowd as though expecting a flaming arrow to fly at him before he continued.

"So, if he is willing, I would like to welcome the hero himself to come up here and give us some words of encouragement, our honouree Consulting Detective; Mr Sherlock Holmes."

The crowd continued to cheer and clap as Sherlock dragged John towards the stage. John looked extremely uncomfortable as he stood beside the taller man, the pair in matching wedding attire.

"Well. Thank you. Officer." Sherlock started awkwardly. "I see that we have many office workers here tonight, mostly ones having affairs with each one another, as there is a tremendous lack of plus 1s" Sherlock paused here for a smile, beside him, John coughed.

The crowd looked at each other awkwardly and Sherlock's smile grew as several people took small steps away from one another.

"I would not have been able to do the job however, if it had not been for my colleague, friend and just recently, husband; Doctor John Watson, so I would just like to add him to this ridiculously cheaply made award." The crowd instantaneously gasped and John's face approached the colour of his favourite jam.

"Thank you to all for attending our reception, I hope you will stay and help yourselves to the refreshments and have a good evening." Sherlock stated, finishing with a closed mouthed smile. He took John's hand and descended the steps back to the ground.

"Oh, I am so going to kill you." John muttered.

"Come now John, how would you afford the rent on your own?" Sherlock questioned lightly.

The people started to murmur as the music started up once more and Sherlock led John to Mycroft and Lestrade standing next to the sushi dishes.

"Did you enjoy yourself, little brother?" Mycroft asked in a somewhat amused tone.

"Obviously" Sherlock stated casually, fitting his left hand in his trouser pocket, the right still holding John's.

"So, what will you two do now, are you going to _honeymoon_?" Mycroft asked the pair.

John looked up expectantly at Sherlock.

"I was thinking of a trip to Dartmoor" Sherlock mused. John stared.

"A case?" John asked incredulously.

Sherlock smiled down at John. "Obviously".

THE END

_I really hope you enjoyed my story. Thinking of starting another soon, I promise it won't be as strung out as this one was! Please review if you can, let me know where I'm going wrong!_

_Thank you for reading._


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